Broken
by Tempestt
Summary: AU In Devil's Trap Sam shot to kill and the brothers are left to pick up the pieces.  Rated for language. WARNING: Deathfic
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural.

A/N: This is my response to the prompt given to me by Kaly for the SFTCOL(AR)S summer fic exchange round four. Pimp the Limp! Thanks to Starliteyes for whipping this into shape for me.

Prompt: (Cause really, it won't spoil the story, I pretty much lay it out on the first page. LOL) In Devil's Trap Sam listened to John - not Dean - and shot to kill. What would have come of the boy's lives and - more importantly - their relationships with one another?

**WARNING: Deathfic! **Not just daddy.

**Broken**

**Prologue**

_We're stronger as a family, Dad. We just are. You know it. Dean Winchester_

_I guess we are stronger as a family. John Winchester_

_We should stick together. Sam Winchester_

**THEN:**

"Kill me and you kill daddy."

Even with the Colt drawn down on him the demon was a smirking, cocky son of a bitch. Sam didn't think hate could actually become a living, breathing thing writhing in your stomach, but he could feel it, squirming down around in his guts like a slimy ball of eels. He looked at the bastard wearing the face of his father and all he felt was loathing.

"I know," Sam replied, boiling with all that hate and pulled the trigger, shooting the demon in the thigh. He watched impassively as Not-John toppled over like a hundred-year old oak in a raging wind storm.

Behind Sam, Dean fell to the floor, blood gushing from his mouth, drawing in pained gasps of air. Sam scrambled over him, the hate in his stomach churning sickly. He had never seen so much blood before. So much of Dean's blood.

His first instinct was to drop the gun so he could haul Dean out to the car as quickly as he could. His brother needed a hospital immediately, but all Dean could think about was their father. He wouldn't allow Sam to help him until he was certain that their dad was still breathing.

Sam padded over to his fallen father tentatively, the Colt loosely clasped in his hand. The demon should be gone, should be dead. It wasn't possible for it to survive a shot from the magically crafted gun, but approach with caution was the Winchester family's foremost rule.

"Sammy! It's still alive. It's inside me. I can feel it." John's head jerked up, his brown eyes glistening with tears and determination. Sam stepped back, tightening his grip on the gun. His father's words lacerated him through the heart, and set the hate roiling in his stomach. The bastard was still alive; was still inside his father; was still tormenting his family.

"You shoot me. You shoot me. You shoot me in the heart, Son." The order was so implicit in his father's voice that Sam was cocking the gun and aiming before he could even think about it. The look of pride that his father threw his way almost made him squeeze the trigger. This is what his father wanted him to do. What they had been working for. The death of the yellow-eyed bastard that had destroyed them all. "Do it now. Sam."

"Sam, don't you do it. Don't you do it!" Dean's voice was weak and wet with blood. A shudder slid down Sam' spine and his finger loosened. Dean. Dean would never forgive him if he did this. And Sam wouldn't blame him for that. Sam and John may have their differences, but they were still family. John was still Sam's father. Sam would never be able to forgive himself, how could he expect Dean to?

"Sam, you got to hurry. I can't hold onto it much longer. You shoot me, son. Shoot me. Son, I'm begging you. We got to end this here and now. Sammy!"

_We got to end this here and now._ No truer words had ever been spoken. The demon-bastard had ruined so many lives. Not just theirs, but families just like them across the nation, maybe even the world. It would be wrong to let it escape now, to let it loose back onto the universe. Who knew how long it would be before they got another chance to kill it. If ever. It was a sly, tricky bastard and Sam could die of old age and never see the sonovabitch again.

"Sam, no." Dean could read the thoughts in his little brother head without even looking at him. Injured and bleeding, he still begged for his family. He begged to keep them together as a unit. With only one piece missing, the ship was still kept afloat, but two missing pieces would be too much to bear. They would sink and drown. Dean would drown.

Sam didn't look at Dean. He knew if he did that his resolve would be lost. He kept his eyes locked onto his father. John could see the decision in Sam's eyes, and his lips curved up just the tiniest bit. It was a smile of relief and gratitude that his tribulations were finally coming to an end.

"You do this. Sammy."

It wasn't an order as so much as it was a pledge of forgiveness. His father was already absolving his youngest son of any responsibility he might feel. For all his father's seemingly endless strength, this was something that was not in his power to grant. The only person that could forgive Sam was Sam, and that was never going to happen. It wouldn't happen, because Dean would never allow it.

The retort of the Colt ricocheted through the barren cabin, the sound echoed by Dean's cries of denial.

_**Fade**_

Sam wrestled Dean's limp body into the front seat of the impala. His jaw was clenched so tightly to keep from sobbing that he thought for sure that he was going to chip a molar. After he shot their dad, Dean had clawed his way over to John's still warm body, dragging his legs, swath of blood trailing behind him on the old, wood boards. He hunched over his father, pressing his face to his chest, his cheek against the smoking hole in his heart and cried. The harsh, broken rasping filled the small room until nothing else could be heard, not even Sam's small whimpers of remorse.

Dean wouldn't let Sam pry him away from their father's body. He wouldn't look at Sam either, just kept his face pressed into John's chest. Finally blood loss exhausted him, and he dropped into unconsciousness, giving Sam the opportunity to carry him away from the cabin and to the car. Sam wanted to bring their dad's body with, but he was afraid that if he waited too much longer that Dean would die. Dad would keep until Sam could come back to retrieve him. Dean might not.

He pulled Dean's legs up and placed them inside the Impala, slamming the door shut, before racing around to the driver's side. By the time he got there, Dean had slumped down the seat and his head was lying on Sam's side. Gently, Sam lifted his brother's head, sliding under him, and resting Dean's cheek on his thigh. As he drove he kept his hand wrapped around Dean's neck, his fingers on his brother's pulse, needing the reassurance that someone in his family was still alive.

When the semi hit them he wasn't looking at the road, but at his brother's face, coated with blood in his lap. He saw the twin beams of white light fill the cab, he felt his body tense seconds before the wheel was jerked from his hand. The Impala shuttered beneath him, and he slammed into the door panel, his entire body screaming in agony. Metal screeched as it was wrenched around like a pretzel and pushed down the blacktop.

For a moment he blacked out, but determinedly he pulled himself back from the abyss. He just lost his father, he couldn't lose Dean as well. He fumbled around in his coat pocket, his nearly numb fingers wrapping around the smooth, wooden grip of the Colt. He wasn't strong enough to lift it, but he could rest it along his belly, the barrel pointed at the door.

Seconds later the door was torn away, and a man stood on ground layered in beads of shattered glass. His face was gray with age, but his eyes were bright and beetle black. Sam wrapped his finger around the trigger, digging the rounded grip into his stomach to steady the barrel as he swung it out towards the demon.

The old man's mouth twisted beneath his mustache, yellow teeth glinting in the moonlight. His fingers were curled into fists, and Sam could see small white scars across his knuckles where he had been in one too many fights over the years. Sam's eyes flickered back up to the demon's chest, excluding everything else from his vision, even the man's face. Sam needed the demon to believe that there was another bullet left in the gun. All Sam had to do was sell it.

"You killed my father."

Sam laughed, a mirthless sound that pulled the taut muscles of his face, stretching skin over bone until he looked maniacal.

"I killed my own father to do it. Does that make us even?"

The demon cocked his head, consideration glittering in his oil-slick eyes.

"Maybe. Or maybe it just means that you'll be taking the express elevator down south sooner than you thought."

The demon chuckled, and Sam's smile became tighter, more feral.

"Probably." Sam lifted the Colt, hiding the strain in his muscles from the weight beneath a snarl of bloody teeth.

"You have no more bullets in that six-shooter, Winchester." The corner of the demon's mouth curved up, his mustache curling around his upper lip.

Sam's eyes hardened and he cocked the gun, sighting down the long barrel at the demon's heart.

"Willing to bet your worthless existence on it?" Sam's voice was so smooth that cold ice skaters could pirouette on it.

"Nah, it's going to be too much fun watching you two crash and burn."

The demon threw back his head and laughed like someone just told him the world's funniest joke. Sam felt a shiver of unease crawl down his spine. He wondered if he swung hard enough if he could knock the demon out with the gun butt. All he needed was a few seconds to get to the weapon's stash in the trunk. His plotting was quickly aborted when the brittle laughter was replaced with a wordless scream. Sam watched as the demon expelled itself from the truck driver in a streaming mass of black smoke. The man fell to his knees, choking, oblivious to the black cloud that hung over his head before it drifted away into the clear night sky.

Sam's eyes drooped and this time he couldn't stop himself from falling into the deep, dark abyss of unconsciousness.

Sam thought he had a dream, but he couldn't be sure. It wasn't a nightmare or a vision, but more of a memory of something that never happened.

He thought Dean was dying and hunting a Reaper.

Sometimes he had dreams like that. Dreams of his life that could have been. Sometimes he dreamed that mom never died and that dad never hunted. Dreams where he became a lawyer and Dean was a fireman. Dreams where Jess was alive and Dean was in love. Dreams of things that never were and never could be, but not once did he ever dream of a life without Dean.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This story is for Kaly who graciously agreed to let me turn this into a multi-chaptered fic, even after I warned her that updates may be sporadic. You're great, and I hope that I can give you lots of sugar to go with your angst!

As always, thanks to Starliteyes, who is a wonderful beta.

**Broken**

**NOW:**

Chapter Two

Sam tried to swallow, and emphatically nodded while the doctor spoke to him. He had survived the crash largely unhurt, but Dean was still unconscious.

"Your brother has minute lesions on his kidneys and liver. We have the bleeding under control, and we are confident that his condition will heal itself with the aid of medication. The human body is an extraordinary organism."

"So that's good?" Sam shoved his clenched fists further into the front pockets of his jeans to keep from fidgeting. His soft hazel eyes flickered over to his brother, who was lying sickly pale on the stiff hospital sheets, unresponsive to the voices in the room.

"Yes, very good." The doctor, an older distinguished looking black man, flipped open the chart he was holding. "It says here that he was asleep in the front seat when the semi struck you. The fact that he didn't tense up probably saved him from receiving further injury even though he was on the side of the impact. The EMT's also said that you were driving an older classic vehicle."

The doctor looked to Sam for confirmation. Sam nodded, his eyes sliding back to his brother. From the corner of his eye he saw a blinding flash of white as the doctor smiled at him.

"Good old Detroit steel probably saved both of your lives. If you had been driving a newer model car made of fiberglass, you two wouldn't be here today."

Sam shifted, refocusing on the doctor, a slight frown on his features. It wasn't that he wasn't thankful for the Impala's sacrifice for them, but he had larger concerns.

"When will Dean wake up?"

The doctor sobered, and consulted his chart again.

"We are weaning him off the sedatives now and expect him to regain consciousness late tonight or tomorrow. We anticipate discharging him by the end of the week."

The doctor flipped the chart shut, and tucked it under his arm. Sam graced him with a tight smile, turning back to his brother as the doctor left the room.

Sam stood over Dean, his fingers wrapped tightly around the metal guardrail, his knuckles blanching white. Dean looked so pale and helpless, but Sam could still see the horror in his brother's eyes when he had shot their father. Sam would never forget the sound of Dean's panted denials as he crawled over to John's corpse, his bloody body trembling with grief.

He unwound one hand from the bar, his fingers cramping in protest. He brushed it over his brother's crew cut, feeling the spikes of soft hair feather across his palm.

A wave of guilt flooded him, stealing the breath from his lungs. He wavered on his feet, and had to grip the rail tighter to keep from falling over. He pressed his palm against Dean's forehead, feeling the cool, waxy skin beneath his fingers. A hot tide of tears lodged themselves in his throat, and he had to drop his chin to his chest to compose himself.

His hand drifted lower until he was covering Dean's eyes, blocking them from sight even though they were closed. There was no way he could be there when Dean woke up. He couldn't bear to see the look of disgust and hate that was sure to be reflected in his green eyes.

He deserved all the damnation that Dean chose to heap upon him, but not yet. He couldn't handle it just yet. He needed time to come to grips with his grief and remorse. He needed to rebuild the walls around his heart, so he could stand tall and look his brother in the face, while being torn apart.

Gently, Sam removed his hand from Dean's eyes. His own were jewel-bright with unshed tears and his breathing was labored. He released the rail and took a step back, distancing himself from his brother, preparing himself for the worst.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so very sorry," Sam whispered, and backed away. He wheeled around and rushed from the room as if hellhounds were at his heels.

8888

Dean came awake in stages. First he regained his hearing, a steady beeping jerking him forward out of a dreamy abyss. He rolled his eyes beneath his lids, trying to swallow, but his throat was raspy and sore. He could smell and taste antiseptic and he knew instinctively that he was in a hospital.

Feeling was the last thing to return, but it was muted and dull. He knew he had fingers because he could move them, but feeling them was something else entirely. The narcotics in his system made him feel like he was wrapped in a wad of full body cotton, and he wanted a drink of water desperately to wash them out of his system.

He blamed the drugs for the lag in his memories too. He counted back, trying to remember why he was once again prone in a hospital bed when he swore he would never go back, even if he was dying. He recalled Meg, and the exorcism that freed an innocent girl. He remembered rescuing his dad, and salting the window sill in a deserted cabin. He even remembered being pressed up against the weathered wooden planks, cold air seeping in through the cracks at his back, his life's blood bleeding out of his pores like sweat on a hot summer day.

After that he drew a blank. Instead of his memories pushing forward, they seemed to reel backwards. He could vividly recall standing across a grassy quad, watching as Sam loped up a wide set of concrete stairs, taking the steps two at a time to enter the library at Stanford. The memory of Sam waking up a few weeks later in a cold sweat after Jess died lacerated Dean across the heart and he briefly wondered why the meds couldn't dull his emotional pain like it did his physical agony.

Their crappy hotel room in Chicago swirled into the forefront of his mind, him braced up against an old wood dresser while Sam told him that he was going to go back to school after the demon was dead. That he never wanted this life and he wanted out. Sam wanted to be a lawyer; he wanted to be a husband and a father. He wanted all the things that Dean couldn't give him. Sam wanted things he couldn't have as long as the demon was alive---as long as Dean kept him tethered to this life.

Lastly, Dean remembered watching as Sam stood over their father, his face grim, his arm unwavering as he pointed the Colt at John. Sam shot down the past in order to claim his future. Dean didn't want to blame him for that, but he did. God help him, he did. The retort of the gun was still ringing in Dean's ears, and he thought maybe it always would.

8888

Dean was awake for three days before Sam came to see him. Bobby had stopped by the day before to tell him that Sam had the Impala towed to his yard and was trying his best to find replacement parts for Dean's baby. That led to an awkward conversation as to why parts were needed in the first place. Dean fumed, but didn't have much to say. There wasn't a lot he could say.

Dean had been air-vacced to the nearest hospital, which was a day's drive from the scene of the accident. Bobby was quick to excuse Sam's absence by saying he had unfinished business back at the cabin, but neither of them needed to say what that business was. They knew. Sam was retrieving their father's body.

So when Sam walked in, carrying two cups of coffee, Dean knew why he hadn't been around, but it didn't make the supposed desertion any less painful. All it did was ram home the truth of the matter. The steadfast reality of Dean's life. He was finally, once and for all, truly alone.

Those long three days gave Dean the time that he needed to think. He wasn't a fool. Sam hadn't stuck around because he felt guilty. As well he should. A gunshot echoed between them, separating them more completely than a ten foot wall of steel and stone.

"I brought you some real coffee. You're not supposed to have it, but what they don't know won't hurt them." Sam nodded towards the nurses' station conspiratorially. He set the coffee down on the moveable table that was swung across Dean's lap, and pretended that he didn't notice that his older brother didn't respond to him.

As Sam's hand retreated his sleeve rose up his arm and Dean could see a white bandage wrapped around his wrist. Sam steadfastly did not meet his brother's heavy gaze, giving Dean a clear view of his little brother's cut and swollen face. Dean had also noticed that Sam was walking with a slight limp, though he tried to hide it.

Dean was struck with the unfairness of it all. The disaster that was their lives. Their mother should have never died, and their dad shouldn't have had to suffer twenty years without his wife. Dean shouldn't be lying in a hospital bed, and his little brother shouldn't have so many ragged scars on his body.

Dean knew that he was done for. His soul was wilting away like an assassin vine being splashed with holy water. He suspected that he wouldn't make it another year. Something was going to get him. A hellhound, a witch, a vengeful spirit. He had lost his edge, and the only thing that he could do was to make sure that he didn't drag his little brother down with him.

"I was able to check out your chart and you're doing well. I figure we can spring you tomorrow, if you're up to it."

Sam frowned when Dean didn't answer and he moved closer to the bed. Taking a deep breath, Sam lifted his gaze and stared hard and heavy at Dean. Always needing to talk, and never willing to back away from any subject no matter how taboo, Sam opened his mouth and plunged right in.

"I took Dad's body to Bobby's. We should give him a funeral as soon as possible."

This was it. This was his chance. Anger suffused Dean's chest, creeping up into his cheeks until they flushed. It wasn't hard to fake anger. It was the only emotion that he could get a handle on. He was pissed at the world and everyone in it. They had all let him down, and now he was alone. Even his little brother had let him down in the end.

Dean's green eyes hardened to stones of jade as he flung a disgusted look at Sam. He backhanded his hot coffee, splashing most of the contents across Sam's legs and sending the Styrofoam cup flying to the floor. Sam jumped back with a hiss, his hand swiping at the hot liquid seeping into his jeans.

"Dude!"

Dean cut him off before Sam could say more.

"Get out!" he snarled, and Sam looked at him wide-eyed.

"What? Dean." Sam stepped closer, but Dean reacted violently, pushing the rolling table away from him and into his brother's legs.

"I said get out and don't come back."

"Dean," Sam choked, and Dean could see tears glittering in his hazel eyes. Dean's eyes only narrowed at the sight.

"I mean it, Sam. Get. The. Fuck. Out." Dean flung the words out with such furious conviction that Sam was already backing towards the door before he finished. Dean watched him go impassively, knowing in his aching heart that it was for the best.

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Bobby came to collect him the next day. Neither of them said a word about Sam. Once in Bobby's truck, Dean asked for a phone, which was handed to him wordlessly.

Bobby cast him a disbelieving look when he asked the operator to connect him to the Stanford Admissions office in California. He spent the entire two hour drive back to the salvage yard talking to the department manager about getting Sam enrolled into school and funded for housing. Sam had kept up on his extension paperwork and the woman knew all about Jessica. Her sympathy only deepened when Dean briskly told her about their father dying recently.

She rescheduled Sam's courses for him, and assured Dean that she might even be able to set up another interview law school. Dean thanked her and hung up, his chest so tight that he could barely breathe.

Sam was waiting for them on the rickety wooden porch when they pulled up, but Dean brushed by him without a word. He went directly to the bathroom, staying in the shower for nearly an hour. He tried to convince himself that it was only water rolling down his face and into the drain, but he couldn't seem to wash out the salty taste in his mouth and on his lips.

They burned Dad's body that night. Dean washed John, anointing him with scented oil and herbs before wrapping him in strips of muslin. Sam wanted to help, but Dean stoically refused. Instead, Sam stood miserably in the doorway, watching Dean's meticulous preparations with watery, bloodshot eyes. Later, they stood side-by-side, silently watching as the flames licked their father's corpse, devouring him until nothing was left but ash. Dean thought it was fitting that husband and wife should be consumed by flame. Maybe now they would burn together for eternity, since it was so very obvious to Dean that there was no Heaven.

Fire was a purifier. It was supposed to burn away all the taint that the world left behind on your soul and leave it free to ascend into Heaven. Dean couldn't believe that, but he could hope that the flames ate away anything that was left behind by the demon before it had died.

Sam cried a river of tears, but Dean didn't shed a one. Dean could feel his heart dying inside. It was being torn apart piece by piece. A part was buried with his mother, another was burning with his father, and the rest was going to walk away with Sam. Without them, Dean would cease to be. He would be nothing more than a walking, talking corpse, just waiting for the next monster to take his head off.

The next morning, Dean broke his self-imposed silence and told Sam that Stanford would accept him back for the new semester. Sam just looked at him like he had taken a puppy out and drowned it, but Dean didn't miss the shadowy flicker of hope in the back of his worn eyes. Sam didn't say a word as Dean walked away from him. The last piece of Dean's heart broke, but no one but he heard it crack.

For a week, Sam followed him around the salvage yard, trying to convince Dean that they were still a family and that it didn't have to be that way. Dean met the onslaught of words silently, always knowing that actions spoke louder. He impassively tore apart the Impala by day, sorting her parts into piles of salvageable and non-salvageable items. At night he stood in the moonlight and watched his little brother sleep. It wasn't lost on him that Sam finally slept through the night for the first time in a year.

On the last day, Sam silently packed his duffel while Bobby waited for him outside to give him a ride to the bus stop. He had to leave today or he would never make it in time for classes. He tried one more time to get Dean to listen to him, but he just watched with emotionless green eyes. Finally, Sam's frame slumped and he swung his Army duffel up onto his shoulder. Dean watched as he walked away.

"Have a good life, Sam."

Sam paused in the doorway, his head drooping below his shoulders, his back to his brother.

"You too, Dean," he said softly and walked away.

Dean's heart died completely, but only he heard its last whimper.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I know the last couple of chapters have been Dean-centric, but I promise that the next chapter will be all Sammy! Again, many thanks to Starliteyes. She's more than just a beta, she's a great sounding board as well. And a person…did I mention she's a person? LOL. Thanks Star.

Spoilers for Bloodlust.

**Broken**

Chapter Three

The day after Sam left, Dean was pulling out the Impala's bench seats so he could rework the twisted frame. Scattered across the floorboards, he found his dad's phone and the remains of the laptop. He looked at them for a minute, his throat tight, and his eyes stinging, but in true Winchester style he shoved the rampant emotions away.

He picked up the phone first, gently cradling it in his palm. It was plain and compact, with no flip top or extending speaker to be broken. It was encased in a worn, black leather case meant to protect the innards from dirt and water. It was simple and practical, just like John. No fancy bells and whistles, just a tool, nothing more.

Dean swallowed hard a couple of times, embracing his daddy's voice in the back of his mind that told him that big boys don't cry. He could hear John's brisk, dry order to work through the pain, to control it before it controlled him.

Breathing steadily, Dean looked at the phone as his father would have, as a tool. The voicemail on the phone was password protected. Dean fiddled with it for a while, delaying the inevitable, but he didn't have the patience Sam had. He threw it into a cardboard box of junk, refusing to look back.

The laptop was bashed all to hell. The lid was torn off and Dean could see the blue and black band stickers still clinging to the silver top. It looked nothing like John's phone. It had personality. It was a reflection of the outgoing character of its owner. Decorating his tool with the stickers had been Dean's passive way of rebelling against his father, however slight. A method of defining a personality for himself that wasn't within the set guidelines of being a soldier or a guardian. It was his way of saying, _this is me, this is Dean._

Now it was gone, and so was he. There was nothing behind that defined him. No father to give him orders. No brother to protect. There was only a widening void of darkness where his heart used to be.

Dean shifted, and stared at the broken remains with watery eyes. Most of the keys on the laptop were missing and the hard drive was completely trashed. The old Dean would have been pissed that all the files on their recent cases were lost, but all he could think about was how Sam wouldn't be able to do his homework without a computer.

Sam's laptop had been lost in the fire back in Palo Alto. He had nothing to call his own, but a few changes of clothes and the gun that Dean had given him. Sam didn't even really have a family anymore.

Dean threw the broken pieces of the computer in the cardboard box and stalked away from the Impala. He borrowed an old, rusted van from Bobby and drove to the nearest city. He wandered around the outskirts of the town until he found a sports bar filled with deer hunters on a weekend away from their wives, with money to burn in their pockets.

It took him longer than it should have to hustle the money he needed. His easy smile had disappeared, leaving behind a toothy, shark's grin and cold dead eyes. No one trusted him, and they didn't want to put their money down on any table that he was working. It took three days to put together the four grand he needed for a more than decent laptop. He wanted Sam to have one of those fancy ones with all the bells and whistles, and a three year everything warranty. Dean even bought him a couple of extra batteries as well. He knew how long his little brother could spend in the library getting lost in words on a page.

If it had been five years ago, when Sam went to college the first time, Dean would have ended every night with a bar fight. He had carried around a lot of anger back then. He had been hurt at his brother for leaving him, pissed at his dad for pushing him out the door. But mostly, he had been disgusted by himself and the deep, bone-aching fear of being alone that permeated his everyday life.

This time around, at the end of the night he would casually thank whoever he was playing, take his last swig of beer and walk out of the bar without looking back. He could no longer summon up the rage or pain to remind himself that he was still alive. His heart was dead. It was only a matter of time before his body fell in line.

Once he had enough money, he purchased the best laptop he could find at the electronics store. There was a Virgin Records next door, and he stood outside the automatic doors for the longest time, listening to the rhythmic swish and watching people walk in and out. From where he stood he could see a display of stickers, and briefly he thought of buying some to send to Sam, but in the end he just walked away.

He cruised back to Bobby's at fifty miles an hour, afraid that if he pushed the beat up van any faster, it would fly apart on the road. He drove up around lunch time and set the laptop on the kitchen table with a thump.

"You have Sam's address." It wasn't a question. Dean knew that Bobby had been talking to Sam almost daily. No doubt they were comparing notes on Dean, but he didn't care.

Bobby looked up from the fridge where he was contemplating the makings of a sandwich. He lifted a shaggy brow as he looked at his houseguest.

"Yeah."

"Send this to him why don't ya?"

Dean made it to the backdoor before Bobby replied.

"Why don't you?"

Dean paused, the screen door braced open while he looked out at the twisted piles of rusted metal cars in front of him. Though summer was drawing to a close, the sun was still hot on his face, and sweat rolled down his hard jaw.

"It's better this way."

"For who?" Bobby sounded disgusted, but Dean couldn't bring himself to care.

"Sam."

Dean stepped outside, letting the door slam behind him with a decisive crack.

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A month later, Bobby dug up a hunt up in Red Lodge, Montana. There were reports of cattle mutilations and recently a murder of a young girl. Bobby thought that it might be a chubracabra, but he wasn't convinced. Dean was more than happy to go. Bobby kept giving him angry sideways looks that made him antsy. By now the Impala was repaired, and purring like a beautiful woman in love. He floored the pedal on the open road, listening proudly as she roared down the blacktop. He made a stab at being happy, but when he grinned and glanced over at the passenger seat his face collapsed. He dropped back down to the speed limit as he drove down the empty road, windows rolled up and the radio silent.

He met a man in Red Lodge. They killed some fangs, bonded over beer and headed back to Dean's room to plot. Dean listened to Gordon's sad story of his sister and sympathized. The man asked him about his family and Dean told him his parents were dead. He thought of Sam, happy and chasing the dream in California, but couldn't bring himself to mention him.

Gordon left late with a promise to be back in the morning so they could check out some potential nests together. Dean intended to turn in for a couple hours of sleep, but he was jumped before he had the chance. Bound and blindfolded he was taken out to a farmhouse, where he had a very interesting talk with a pretty vampire girl. He didn't pay her much mind, and it wasn't until later when Gordon was standing over her, torturing her with dead man's blood that Sam's voice chimed up in his head.

Gordon had her tied to a chair, looking pale and helpless, just like any other woman Dean had tried to save through the years. Every time Gordon stabbed her with the knife coated in blood, black spider veins would crawl under her skin, and she would moan like a wounded animal deep in the back of her throat. Occasionally, she would crack open her swollen eyelids and her dark eyes would glitter tearfully from behind her lashes. She never once asked Dean for help, and for some reason that made him feel like the lowest kind of bastard.

"You know, she said that they were the ones behind the cattle mutilations. She tried to tell me that they don't drink human blood anymore."

Gordon was grinning down at Lenore, with an open, white smile that made Dean's stomach sour. When he spoke, Gordon's chocolate eyes rolled over towards him, and Dean could see the whites of his eyes were starting to yellow around the edges. Too many long nights hunting and drinking were taking their toll on the man.

"You think a leopard can change its spots? You think a predator can suddenly settle down and play good little house cat? She's nothing but an animal. She's lying if she says otherwise, and I can prove it."

Gordon stabbed the blood-coated blade deep into the wooden table he was standing beside and pulled out a ten inch Bowie. Before Dean could protest, Gordon held out his arm over Lenore's head and sliced a nice clean cut over his forearm. Dean watched with a start of concern as fresh blood dripped onto the tortured vampire's face, Gordon smiling madly the entire time.

She bucked as soon as the droplets struck her. Her face contorting with raw hunger as her fangs descended. She opened her mouth, extending her tongue, trying to snatch the blood out of the air as it fell. At the last moment she turned away, her face smoothing out, her fangs hiding themselves behind her pink gums.

"No," she moaned, low and tight. Dean would have thought it was a ploy if she tried to look at him with even an ounce of pleading, but instead she closed her eyes tightly, averting her face as if she was ashamed at her own weakness.

Gordon looked perplexed for a moment, but he shrugged it off quickly and picked up his previously abandoned knife. Dean took an almost involuntarily step forward.

"Do you think your sister would have wanted this? This isn't the fang that killed her."

Where did those words come from? They were something that Sam would say, not him. Dean was a hunter. That's what he did, without compassion or remorse. John had taught him to hate every evil sonofabitch on the planet and to kill them as quickly as he could. And he did. It was never his place to question his father's teachings. But Sam did. Sam questioned their father nearly every damned day of his life. Sam was the one who thought about stupid things, like what kind of person a vengeful spirit was before they died. He would read their terrible history, sympathizing with the abuse that made them helpless in life and so angry in death.

"My sister? You think that filthy fang killed her? No, he turned her, man. Made her into a monster just like him. So I tracked her down and I killed her."

Dean's entire body stiffened as if he had been struck. Even Lenore, as far gone as she was, went still in her chair. Her lashes fluttered, and Dean knew that she was praying for an easy death.

"You did what?" Dean tried to force the words out demandingly between his cold lips, but they were breathed out in a soft whisper instead. His heart thumped irregularly in his chest, and he wondered if it was possible to have a stroke just from pure shock.

"She wasn't my sister anymore, man. She was a thing, a fang. She was nothing more than a monster."

"She was your sister." This time Dean's words were strong and forceful. His shock passed, and in its wake was a blaze of white hot anger. From out of nowhere, Dean tackled Gordon, taking him to the ground smoothly. Dean straddled him, rising up to punch him repeatedly in the face.

"You don't kill family. You just don't." Dean slammed his fist into Gordon's nose, ignoring the spray of blood. "No matter what. No matter how evil they are. How changed. How possessed." Dean wrapped his hands around Gordon's collar, tugging his upper body off the floor, so he could scream into his face. "You just don't shoot them. You save them. You help them. You keep your family together no matter what." Dean head-butted Gordon in his already broken nose, releasing the man so he could collapse back onto the floor. Still in the throes of fury, Dean hit him again and again.

With every punch, Dean spat out all the poison that had been building inside of him. Gordon tried to block the blows, his eyes screwed up tight so he wouldn't have to see the fury that was etched over Dean's face. He regained his equilibrium, bucking Dean off, and using his bulkier strength to send the leaner man into a china cabinet.

Dean heard the crash of broken glass, and he covered his head with his arms as it rained down on him. A few of the shards sliced his ribs, but there was no real damage, and he was scrambling to his feet as Gordon was.

The black man snatched his Bowie up off the table and Dean cast him a narrowed look. Dean was unarmed, except for his .45 in his belt, but he didn't need it. He had already seen Gordon fight, and he knew he could take the man easily, armed with a knife or not.

Gordon slashed the blade at Dean's belly and he jumped back to avoid the blow. As the man followed through, Dean wrapped his steely fingers around Gordon's wrist, squeezing tightly until he dropped the knife. Gordon huffed, and used his greater weight to ram Dean into the nearest wall.

Dean could feel his spine pop as he collided with wooden wainscoting that caught him across his lower back. He grimaced, but didn't lesson his grip on Gordon's coat labels. He anchored himself on the other man, using Gordon's weight against him, as he slammed his knee into his groin.

Gordon groaned as his knees buckled. Dean kept him upright with one hand fisted in his jacket as he punched Gordon across the face, until he felt his cheek bone crunch and saw white fragments of teeth fly out between his loose, bloody lips.

Dean hauled the moaning man back towards the chairs, efficiently tying him down with his own rope. He then hurried over to Lenore, quickly untying her and hauling her up into his arms. Outside on the porch he was met by Ely and another man, who were coming home after packing up the rest of their clan. Their murderous looks had Dean backing towards the door, but a few quick words from Lenore defused the situation.

Later, he thought that maybe he should have killed Gordon, but even though he was half-way across the country, Sam was still a pain in Dean's ass. Little Sammy wouldn't approve of his big brother killing a human, and something in Dean honored that, even when he couldn't bring himself to honor his promise to always be there for Sam. Dean left Gordon tied up, and called someone three days later to let him go.

Dean thought he would never see Gordon again. Dean thought wrong.

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Dean drove two states over and stopped at a dive bar two hours before closing. He bypassed his customary mug of beer and bought an entire bottle of Jack instead.

Snagging the bottle off the bar by the neck, he found the darkest corner of the room, and slumped into the torn, red vinyl booth. He clanked the shot glass and bottle down on the scarred table, pouring himself a drink before they even fully settled. Something hard jabbed into his hip and he shifted, digging into his pocket to pull out his cell phone as he took a drink.

He dropped it onto the table with a clatter, pouring himself another four fingers of whiskey. He shot it back with a hiss, shuddering at the hot slide of alcohol that slithered down into his belly. He sat there for a long time, listening to the subdued chatter of customers as they started spilling out of the bar to head home. He stared at the phone, only taking his eyes off it to belt another shot. Occasionally, he would pick it up to scroll through this contact list, pausing on Sam's name every time.

He desperately wanted to call his little brother. He had the overwhelming urge to share everything that he had learned in the last couple of days with Sam. Dean knew that his little brother would be thrilled to know that there were vampires out in the world that were fighting their evil natures and subsiding on cattle blood. Sammy got off on that shit. Proof that you control who and what you are, no matter your genetics or pre-disposition. Nothing was evil, unless it wanted to be so or was driven to madness. At least that was what Sam thought.

Dean needed to know if Sam was doing okay and if he was settling into his new schedule. Gordon's rant had disturbed him in a way Dean hadn't thought possible since their father died. Dean was certain that he had burned out the part of himself that felt emotion. He was comfortable being a shell. He wanted nothing more than to be empty.

Dean would like to tell Sam about his fight with Gordon. He'd make a big production of it too. Dean would make himself sound almost super-human, then they would laugh about it together. Sam would know that his big brother was full of shit, but he would appreciate it all the more, because he knew that Dean did it to make him laugh.

Dean's hand clenched around the cell, his eyes blurring until the name on the display went from Sam to Sammy. Most of all, Dean wanted to get into the Impala and drive all the way to Stanford so he could make sure that his little brother was protected.

Gordon's callous disregard for his baby sister pierced something deep inside Dean. For the first time he thought maybe he had made a mistake. That he was wrong to push Sam away. All it would take was one phone call and Dean could fix it. Sam would welcome him back, Dean knew that he would. His little brother wouldn't even make a big deal about it. Sam liked to talk, but he knew when to shut the hell up too. That was one of the things Dean liked about his little brother.

The bartender bellowed for last call, jerking Dean out of his dark thoughts. He shut off his phone, pocketing it with a grimace.

It wouldn't matter if Sam did welcome Dean. There was no place for him in his little brother's life. It was better this way. Sam was at school where he belonged and Dean was hunting just like his father would have wanted.

There was no going back for either of them. Destiny's paths weren't meant to be changed.

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

Spoilers: Great big fat ones for Heart! Thanks to Starliteyes for looking this over for me.

**Broken**

Chapter Four

Sam settled into his new routine fairly quickly. The first week was a hassle trying to get added into classes that were already full, but at least he knew his way around campus. Since he was a late registrant, the only room available to him was in the freshmen dorm. It felt a little like moving backwards, but as always he adjusted.

His roommate was more than a little wary of him. The first time Sam went to college he had made a concerted effort to be pleasing, affable, downright _friendly._ He had wanted so badly to fit in, to be normal that he had been disgustingly accommodating. But now, Sam couldn't seem to summon up his previously easy going nature. Instead, he was sullen, broody, and more than a little cynical.

Most of his friends had graduated the year before, but there were a handful left behind taking graduate courses. He made obliging small talk with them, but he no longer felt the urge to connect with them. There was so much that he couldn't tell them about the last year, which only compounded on top of his previous lies about his childhood. He suddenly felt tired, and his listlessness sapped the energy he needed to deflect the natural questions his friends had, so he choose the easy route, and kept them at arm's length.

His third week into the semester, a package arrived from Bobby. He toted it up to his dorm, barely acknowledging his roommate who quickly slid out of the room at his appearance. He plunked it down on his desk, strewn with papers and thick textbooks. He ripped off the plain brown wrapping to find a top-of-the-line laptop and a quick hand-written note.

Disappointingly, the note was from Bobby. Sam had been half-hoping that Dean would have taken the time to at least add a line, but he wasn't surprised that he didn't. All that Bobby had to say was that everything was fine back at the junk yard, and that Dean was the one to purchase the laptop for him.

Sam took the PC out of the box, trailing his fingers reverently over the white, durable plastic lid. The tight knot that had formed in the center of his chest loosened a fraction. Even though Dean hadn't written or even called him since he left, it said a lot that he had taken the time to hustle the money to buy a laptop for Sam. He wanted there to be more from his brother, even words of anger would be preferable to the silence, but Sam knew better than to expect it. He would just have to be thankful for what he had.

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As usual, classes were easy for Sam. He had the ability to read something once and have it stick into his brain like glue. As the weeks passed, he found himself writing furiously in his yellow legal pads while in class, only to realize later that he wasn't taking notes, but theorizing on the origin of vampirism, or the existence of EMF.

One of the first things he had done since coming back to Stanford was to reestablish his morning routine of stopping for coffee on the way to class. He started out picking up the Stanford Daily to read while waiting, but by the end of the month he was spending more on newspapers than he was on coffee, and _hello_ Starbucks was not cheap.

As the months rolled by, his grades began to slip. Instead of spending his nights cramming, he would do research on obscure deaths in the area. He stopped studying on the weekends all together, opting instead to go on small hunts. Nothing very big and something he could always handle. For three weeks he subsided on Top Ramen and Cheesy Mac so he could buy himself a shotgun and load it with homemade shells filled with rock salt so he could hunt a poltergeist in the next town over.

He thought maybe he was searching for something that he couldn't find. A connection, the comforting warmth of a memory of him and Dean together, but instead he only found death and decay that permeated his loneliness.

Winter crouched down upon Sam and the desolation of it sunk deep into his bones. Christmas came and went without a word from Dean. It was only through Bobby that Sam knew that his brother was still alive and hunting endlessly. Sam slipped further into a depression, finally realizing that the dull pang in his chest were the remnants of his loneliness and despair. Guilt ate at him in his dreams, and he relived the moment he pulled the trigger and lost the last remains of his family over and over. Dean was still alive, but he might as well be as dead as their father for all the attention he showed Sam.

In mid-January Sam was sitting at a small table at Starbucks, the San Francisco Chronicle spread out before him, when he found an article about a series of murders that took place during the nights of the full moon. Some quick research and slightly illegal hacking revealed that all the victims were missing their hearts. He knew right away that he had a hunt.

_Werewolves._ Sam sat back in his chair, staring out the window at nothing particular. He could practically hear Dean crowing in the back of his head. His brother would totally dig something like this. Absently, Sam pulled out his phone, scrolling down his contract list until Dean's name was highlighted. He wanted so badly to call his brother, to tell him that he had found something big, but when he tried to move his thumb his whole body cramped. Guilt rode high on his shoulders, pushing him down until he slumped in his seat, the phone loosely cradled in his big hand.

Although Dean had sent him the laptop, Sam was no longer fooled into believing that it was an olive branch. Dean hadn't sent him a gift because he was interested in reconciliation. He was doing what he was hardwired to do: take care of his little brother. Dean didn't want to talk to Sam, or have anything to do with him. His silence for the last six months made that abundantly clear. Sam tried to tell himself that Dean just wanted some space and to be left alone. As the weeks flowed into months, Sam feared that Dean would never forgive him.

Sam had to learn to respect Dean's wishes, no matter how much it hurt. He had no right to thrust himself into his brother's life after what he had done. As far as he was concerned, he didn't even have the right to say that he had a brother. Sam was a disgrace, and no amount of belly-crawling was going to change that.

Sam slammed his phone shut, pocketing it roughly. He closed his laptop, packing it away in his leather bag, along with the folded-up newspaper. Sam had just enough money to get him a bus ticket to San Francisco, but after that he would have to hustle for some food.

A year and a half ago he would have been appalled at the thought of pool sharking. The entire time he had been at Stanford, Sam had worked decent low wage jobs to pay for his essentials, but now he found that he just didn't have the time to deal with the hassle. He would rather find a bar far enough away from the campus to hustle some pool. Subconsciously, Sam knew that it was his way of trying to be closer to his brother, and finally after the year and a half that he had just lived through, he was fine with that realization.

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Madison was a nice girl with long brown hair and big doe eyes. She had a sweet, sad smile that made Sam want to stand up taller and show her what kind of protector he could be. Sadly, she had a stalker ex-boyfriend who Sam was pretty sure was a werewolf. That didn't deter Sam though, he had seen worse. He spent an entire day talking to her when he should have been hunting. He used the excuse that he was sticking around to see if Kurt would show up, but the truth was that he couldn't seem to walk away from her. She was the complete opposite of what Jess had been, and yet, they were eerily similar in ways that made Sam's heart constrict.

It had been a while for Sam, but she was into him, he could tell. He wanted to stay in her apartment forever. It was a cocoon of warmth and acceptance that he hadn't even realized he was craving. It had been so long since he connected with someone. Just having the opportunity to talk seemed almost novel to him. She knew nothing about him or his life, only that he was there to help, and there was something freeing about that. Finally he had to leave, but only after Madison extracted a promise from him that he would be back soon. Her dark eyes glittered when she looked up at him, and Sam felt something close to anticipation tighten around his chest when he told her that he would be back soon.

Sam trailed her ex around town, always a half a step behind. Finally, he caught up to Kurt at his apartment, but when he arrived he found Madison hunched over the dead man, her face contorted with fangs and smeared with blood. She leaped at him, and he was just barely able to ward her off with a slash to her arm with a silver knife. She sprang out the window, leaving him along with the freshly rent corpse of her ex-lover.

He tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness washed over him, and he realized that he had slammed his head harder against the wall than he thought. He slid back down to the floor, unable fight the unconsciousness that engulfed him.

In the morning when he woke, the first thing he became aware of was the pounding in his head. The second thing was the sick twist in his stomach. Madison was the werewolf. Sam couldn't believe that he had missed it. Sometimes he wished the evil bastards that roamed around would just brand themselves on the forehead so he would know right off, before---before he developed _feelings._

Sam pulled himself up, shaking off his dizziness and unease. He checked the load on his .45, feeling the sickness in the pit of his belly cramp at the silver glint of bullets in the clip. He tucked the gun in his pants, his mouth pulled down into a firm line of determination.

When Madison opened the door to his knock, her eyes lit up in a way that almost made him doubt himself. If she really was a werewolf she shouldn't be so happy to see him. He thrust down the unease in his gut and pushed his way into her apartment, pulling his pistol with smooth, easy grace. He shoved the gun into her face, backing her up into a straight back chair, while studiously ignoring the coalescing expressions of shock and fear that flowed over Madison's delicate features.

Sam should have shot her right then. There was no reason for him not to. There was no reason to tie her to a chair. There was no reason to listen to her while she pleaded with him. And there certainly was no reason for him to watch the tears roll down her face. Perhaps it was his own way of punishing himself. Penitence for the crimes he had committed in the name of his father's righteous quest. It was the only explanation he could think of. It certainly wasn't because he was weak. He had proven his ability to kill nearly six months ago. And that had been his own father. This was just a woman whom he barely even knew.

"Sam, you're sick. You're imaging things. Monsters don't exist. Not really."

Sam stood across from her, his arms crossed defensively, his gun tucked to the side. He kept his game face on, and in the back of his mind he thought about how proud Dean would be of him, but that didn't stop the hurt that was spreading through his heart. She was so scared, so sure that he was the monster, and deep inside he knew she was right. Only a real monster would kill his own father.

"You know what, save the act," Sam exploded, suddenly furious. He paced past her, escaping her big doe eyes that were chewing him up with remorse.

"It's not an act! I'm not a werewolf. There is no such thing. It's made up. They're not real. You know they are not real." Panic was straining her voice, and he could hear it break with tears. His chest constricted and his first instinct was to hide behind anger.

In one step he was beside her, squatting down so he could point his gun at the slash across her arm. The damning proof that she had been the one in the apartment. She had murdered Kurt and then attacked Sam because he had been a threat. The cut only solidified what Sam already knew. He was going to have to kill her.

"No? Then where did that come from?"

"I don't know. Sam, God you need help. Please don't do something you are going to regret. I'm not what you think I am. I'm not."

Her words dug down deep and stabbed him in the guts. Her eyes were so big that he felt like he could fall into to them. They shimmered with tears, huge liquid pools of fear and sadness.

She asked him not to do something he would regret, but regret was his constant companion. He didn't know if he could do it again. He didn't know if he had it in him to kill another person. And she was just a person. No matter how much his rational brain was telling him that she was a murdering werewolf, his heart was convinced that she had no knowledge of her actions.

He knew from experience what a lie looked like. When he peered into her dark velvet eyes, he saw no hint of deceit. She honestly had no knowledge of her actions. How could he condemn her for something that wasn't even her fault? How could he execute her, when the eyes looking back at him weren't a werewolf's, but an innocent woman's?

He had to save her. He had to do what he couldn't do six months ago when he stood over his father in that old, decrepit cabin. This was his chance to redeem himself--to show his brother, to show himself that he really wasn't a worthless, murdering bastard. He could do this. He could save her.

"Madison, when were you mugged?" During their afternoon long conversation the day before, Madison had confessed to a life changing event. Being a victim of a random violent crime made her realize that life was short. She had dumped Kurt, and pursued life with a fresh new perspective and a hunger to succeed. Sam wondered now how much of that was the woman, and how much was animal instinct.

She looked at him, her mouth pressed into a firm line of defiance. Her face was wet with tears, and flushed with terror, but she was trying so hard to be brave.

"Please, it's important. Just answer the question."

She grimaced, clearly uncertain at what he was getting at.

"About a month ago.

"Did you see the guy?"

"No. He grabbed me from behind."

"Did he bite you?"

The defiance on her face fell away and confusion clouded her eyes.

"How did you know that?"

Sam felt hope flutter through his chest, and he barely contained the urge to smile with joy. During his year with Dean he had read their dad's journal backwards and forwards, memorizing nearly the entire thing. One of the entries that he remembered clearly was John's theory on a cure for lycanthropy. If you severed the bloodline then it _might_ cure the victim. It was a big might, but Sam had to try it.

"Where?"

"On the back of my neck."

He showed her his gun, making sure her eyes followed it to the table where he placed it gently. Hands up, he circled behind her. He lifted her soft, dark hair from her neck, shifting it aside so he could see the pockmarked scar where she had been bitten.

"That's just a love bite," he muttered to himself, still holding her hair in his hand. It felt different than Jess's had. It was soft and silky while Jess's had been kinky with curls. He wanted to stand there and thread his fingers through the dark silk, but that chance had been lost the second he had shown her all his cards, complete with a pearl-gripped .45.

"Where were you when this happened?" Sam dropped her hair and stepped away. He stood behind her, so she couldn't see the raw hunger that filtered over his face.

"Walking home from a friend's loft."

"Let me guess. Not too far from Hunter's Point."

She nodded and the hope in Sam's chest grew. He could save her. He knew that he could. He could do this one thing right, and just maybe he could redeem his tarnished soul just a tiny bit.

He had to go hunting tonight. The werewolf that turned Madison would be prowling its hunting grounds, and Sam had to catch it. He circled around to her again, stopping dead in his tracks at the hopelessness that was reflected in her eyes. Somehow she had come to the conclusion that his line of questioning had only damned her cause more. A single tear slid down her cheek, and suddenly something hot and heavy tried to force its way into Sam's throat.

"Please, just let me go."

Her soft plea shattered something inside of Sam. He grabbed a chair, pulling it close to her. He needed to explain to her that he was going to be able to save her. He needed to swear it to her, because only by doing so would he be able to make it happen. He had to believe that.

"Look. I know you're scared. I also know that there is no way in hell that you are going to believe me. But I'm doing this, because I'm trying to help you."

Her small elfin face crumbled at his words, and more tears slid down her cheeks. Her defiance had long since melted away, leaving her fear bared to him like naked skin. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and shield her from the monsters that tormented her, but he couldn't. Sam was her monster. Her demon. How was he supposed to protect her from himself?

"I'm not going to lie. The odds aren't exactly in our favor, but if this goes the way that I pray that it does. I'll untie you, walk out that door, and never come back. You'll live the rest of your life, and I'll just be a bad memory."

She just stared into his eyes, searching for the truth of his words deep in his soul, but she didn't have the same experience that he did with lies and she couldn't see past the silver .45 in his hand. She dropped her eyes to her lap, her shoulders stooped with defeat. Sam closed his eyes, fighting back his disappointment, before he stood up. Wordlessly, he grabbed the back of her chair, tipping it back on two legs. She gasped in fright, but didn't say a word as he dragged her backwards into a large walk-in closet. He set her upright in the center of the small room, surrounded by winter coats and boxes of trinkets that she never looked at anymore.

He turned back before he closed the door, their eyes meeting across the short distance. Sam wanted to say something to reassure her, to convince her that he wasn't going to hurt her, but for the first time in his life, he was out of words. Her terror had choked them out of him.

"I'll be back in the morning. I promise."

Her dark eyes flickered, and Sam knew that his vow did little to ease her. After all, to her, Sam was nothing more than a psychopath who waved a gun in her face, tied her to a chair, and was now locking her in a closet. It was then that Sam realized that there were varying degrees of monstrosity, and in her eyes he was one of the worst.

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When Sam opened the closet the next morning, he found Madison lying on the floor, naked and shivering. The closet was torn apart, the coats shredded, and the walls deeply scarred with claw marks. He watched silently as she looked around her, shock and awe etched as deeply on her face as the scratches on the walls. She crossed her arms over her body, shielding her nakedness more from herself than from Sam. He averted his eyes to give her the privacy she needed, while watching her covertly from beneath the veil of his thick lashes.

She reached out a trembling hand to pull a torn, but serviceable sweater to her, wrapping it around her body. She struggled shakily to her feet. Sam had to fight the urge to step into the room and help, but he held his ground, instinctively knowing that she would shy away from any contact with him.

After she absorbed the chaos of the room, and the fact that she was the one and only occupant, she lifted her dark eyes to stare at him.

Sam was haggard from a long night of hunting. He had finally caught Glenn, Madison's next door neighbor in the early morning hours trying to take a bite out of hooker down on Hunter's Point. When Sam had pumped the silver slug into Glenn, he hadn't died instantly. The wolf had melted away, leaving a scared and wounded man in its wake.

Glenn had turned his terrified eyes onto Sam, blood pouring from his mouth as he asked what had happened. Sam hadn't been able to find the words to answer him, so he had crouched down and held the scared man's hand as the darkness of death stole into his eyes. The walk back to Madison's had been one of the longest in Sam's life, only comparable to the trek from the backwoods cabin to the Impala after he killed his father.

On the one hand he was happy to have saved Madison, but on the other, he had to kill another human being to do so. To Sam it didn't matter that Glenn had been a monster. For three weeks out of the month, Glenn had been a man, unaware of his actions during the full moon. It seemed unfair to punish the human for the actions of the wolf, but there was no other way.

"It should be over now. You'll never see me again." Sam's words were soft and sad. Madison turned away to look at the destruction she had wrought, still speechless. When she turned back, Sam was gone, leaving her alone with the quiet knowledge that he really had saved her.

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Sam was a tall man. There was no hiding that fact. Even though his height gave him away, Sam was very good at blending into his surroundings. He stood in the shadows of the building across from Madison's bedroom window, out of sight. Even though he was convinced that by killing Glenn he had saved Madison, he couldn't leave until he was sure.

He watched her silhouette as she paced back and forth, before disappearing from the window. Sam sank further into the shadows as Madison left her building, walking across the sidewalk and up to the edge of the street. She was staring right at him, and he knew it was useless to pretend.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked from the shadows, still as far away from her as he could get. He didn't have to raise his voice much. The sharp, crisp air carried his words across the road to her.

"Kurt has been stalking me for the last month. That sort of thing makes a girl aware of her surroundings."

Sam allowed a half smile to curl up on the corner of his mouth as he emerged from the shadows.

"I suppose it does."

"What are you doing here, Sam?"

Sam shoved his hands into the front pocket of his jeans, his eyes skittering away to look down the street.

"Look. I'm pretty sure that I've severed the bloodline, but I've got to hang around and make sure."

"So you're waiting to see if I'll turn."

Sam shrugged, not quiet meeting her eyes.

"Well, you might as well come up then. Get's cold here at night."

Sam's hazel eyes flickered up to meet her dark velvet ones. The look in her eyes was sincere, and Sam was momentarily taken aback. He thought for sure that if she caught him lurking around that she would call 911, not invite him back into her apartment.

"Look. I'm not stupid, okay? I saw the closet, and I spent the day doing some research. Every month since Glenn moved here a year ago, women have ended up dead, their hearts missing."

She trailed off, like she wanted to say more, but couldn't find the words. "Yah?" Sam prompted and she shifted slightly with unease.

"You were telling the truth, weren't you? About everything. What you did, it was to help me. I did all those horrible things when I turned."

Sam crossed the street in record time, his eyes wide with concern.

"You didn't know." Sam made an aborted reach for her, but his hand dropped away at the last second. He was still uncertain of her reaction to his touch—to his caress.

"But that doesn't make it right, does it? People are dead because of me. Innocent people. I need--" She crossed her arms and looked away. Sam's fingers grazed her jaw, pulling her eyes back to him.

"What?"

"I need you, Sam. I'm afraid to be alone."

Sam nodded wordlessly, pulling her into a non-threatening one-armed hug that was meant to reassure her, but she had other ideas. She looped both her arms around his waist, and pressed her warm body against the length of his.

"Come upstairs, and stay the night with me, Sam," she whispered, her warm breath lingering on his throat. Hot need shimmered down his spine and curled in the bottom of his stomach. He swallowed hard and nodded against her hair that smelled like cucumber melon.

She stepped back, smiling brightly up at him. She placed her delicate hand in his large one, and led him up the stairs to her apartment. Once inside, all the need and want in Sam exploded to the surface. He trapped Madison against a wall, lifting her up so he could fit his body into hers as he kissed her feverishly. She returned his kiss, thrusting her tongue against his in a silken slide that made his entire body shiver.

They made love most of the night, finally falling asleep well after midnight. Sometime in the wee morning hours, Sam awoke with a start, knowing instinctively that something was wrong. He sat up, searching the room intently for Madison.

She was crouched next to him, her milky blue eyes radiating animal intelligence. He lunged forward, trying to grab her arm before she could escape, but she swiped her claws at him, catching him across the cheek. She leapt out of the window before he could recover, disappearing into a swirl of San Francisco fog.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to Starliteyes for looking this over for me.

**Broken**

Chapter Five

"There has to be something, Bobby?"

"_No, Sam. There's no cure for lycanthropy."_

As soon as the sun rose, Madison had made a frantic call to Sam's cell phone, asking him to pick her up at some random street corner. He rushed her back to her apartment, watching as she shivered beneath his tan jacket. As soon as they returned she raced to hide in the shower, but Sam could hear her sobs over the running water. That was five hours ago and he had been on the phone since.

"Dad's journal said that severing the bloodline might work."

"_Might. The truth is Sam that no one has ever come back from being a wolf. It's impossible to reverse it."_

"Bobby." Sam's voice cracked on that single word, and from the corner of his eye he could see Madison's tear-stricken face.

Sam could hear Bobby's heavy sigh, and he imagined that the crotchety old man was rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"_Sam, have you called your brother yet?"_

Bobby was tentative, and it was a direct contrast as to what Sam knew about the man. The subject of the brother's falling out was a touchy one that no one wanted to get involved in.

"No." Sam's reply was monotone. He was still looking at Madison, trying to swallow down the hard lump of bile that was expanding in his belly.

"_Sam_," Bobby sighed again.

"No!" Sam responded sharply, his eyes skirting away from his lover. "Dean doesn't want to hear from me. He's made it clear where we stand."

"_Has he_?" Bobby sounded tired, and Sam wondered if the old man was staying up nights wondering about their fate. It seemed unlikely, but Sam was hard-pressed to guess what the man thought about.

"Yes," Sam snapped out. "Now can you help me or not?"

"_No, Sam, I can't. There is nothing anyone can do for that girl 'cept put her out of her misery."_

Sam snapped the phone shut without saying goodbye. Madison was standing next to him, but he couldn't quite meet her eyes.

"I don't remember anything. I probably killed someone last night. Didn't I?" Madison's voice was soft and fragile. It bore down on Sam until his head hung below his shoulders. He was slumped in a chair, his elbows braced on his knees. His gun was sitting ominously on the table next to him, the slide shining brightly in the afternoon sunlight.

"There's no way to know yet." Sam replied, while staring intently at his hands that dangled between his knees.

"Is there something we can try?"

Sam's first inclination was to reassure her, to promise that he would stay with her and help her through this, but he knew they would be lies before they even passed his lips. His heart constricted in his chest, and he could hear Dean's matter-of-fact voice in the back of his head.

"I could lock you up, but some night you'll bust out and---"

"I could kill someone. Another innocent person. My friends, my family. Maybe a child next time. No one would be safe." Madison was staring at the floor now, and Sam could see her tears falling to the ground.

"Stop it, don't talk like that." Sam was reaching for her, but she was moving away towards his gun.

"Sam. I don't want to hurt anyone else. I don't want to hurt you."

She picked up his gun, and turned towards him. He stood up, his face drawn so tight that he thought that it might shatter.

"Put that down." His voice was rough with unshed tears, and it was all he could do to force the words out.

"I can't do it myself. I need you to help me."

She had no idea what she was asking him to do. He couldn't kill again. There was no way he could pick up that gun, aim it at her chest and pull the trigger. He just couldn't go through that again.

"Madison, no." His words were strangled and he had to fight the urge to step away from her. She offered him his gun, grip first, her small hand wrapped around the silver barrel.

"Sam. I'm a monster."

She was so close to him that he could smell her body wash and beneath that the salty tang of her tears. He could taste her fear and sadness in the air like it was a permanent part of her scent. He didn't want her smelling like that for the rest of her life. He couldn't stand the haunted look in her eyes when she thought about her potential victims. It broke something fundamental deep inside him when he saw how defeated she was.

All of Bobby's sources had been scoured, but Sam couldn't accept defeat.

"You don't have to be. We can find a way. I can. I'm going to save you." He placed his big hand over her small one which was wrapped around the gun. He wanted so badly to protect her. To save her from herself-- from _him. _She needed a hero, but what she got instead was Sam Winchester, father killer and fuck-up. She deserved so much more.

"You tried. I know you tried. This is all there is left. Help me, Sam. I want you to do it. I want it to be you."

She tried to push the gun toward him, but he resisted.

"I can't," he choked out. She had no idea what she was asking him to do. There was so little of his soul left after his father, shooting her would take the last shredded remains. If he killed her, he would have nothing left. No father, no brother, and no soul. There would be no point for him to go on. He wasn't even a hunter; he was just a glorified murderer.

"I don't wanna die. I don't." A single tear rolled down her face and spilled off the point of her chin, landing on his hand. It was warm and wet, just like blood. "But I can't live like this. This is the way you can save me. Please. I'm asking you, Sam."

Even as he was shaking his head, he was taking the gun from her. He wanted to say no, to scream it as loud as he could, but he couldn't force the word beyond the burn in his throat. He wanted Dean to be there with him so badly. He needed his big brother's comforting presence, his aura of confidence. Dean would reassure him that he was doing the right thing.

Dean would still love him no matter what.

Sam choked on the thought. Dean didn't love him anymore. Not since that night six months ago when he shot their dad. Sam was positive that the only reason Dean hadn't killed Sam out of revenge was because they were family. Dean revered family above all else, but when Sam shot their father, he shattered everything.

Sam made it a habit to bitch whenever Dean had called him Sammy, but secretly he reveled in it. He knew that it was his big brother's repressed way of saying, 'I love you.' But since that night, Dean hadn't once called him by his nickname. In fact the only time Dean did say Sam's name was to spit it out like a curse.

There was no love waiting for Sam once this day was done. And neither would there be salvation.

He wrapped his large hand around the grip of his pistol, his finger naturally curling around the trigger. Madison stood unwaveringly in front of him, her eyes locked with his. Sam could see his reflection in their dark depths. To himself he looked like a demon in angel's robes. Madison thought he was her savior, but Sam knew the truth. He was her destroyer.

He lifted the gun until the barrel was pressed just above her breasts, directly over her heart. She never flinched, as if she knew that she had to be strong for him. It made him sick that in the end, it was his victim that showed nearly inhuman courage in the face of his cowardice. His hand shook, and the barrel of the pistol brushed delicately against her skin.

Madison lifted her hand to brush her fingers over the wound on his cheek that her claws had inflicted. Her eyes were soft, and a small smile curled up on her lips.

"It's okay, Sam. Everything is going to be okay," she reassured him, and his heart shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.

"I'm sorry," he choked, suddenly unable to breathe under the weight pressing on his chest.

"I know," she whispered, her eyes bright with trust and acceptance. She swiped the pad of her thumb over his full lower lips, her touch softer than butterfly wings.

Sam shuddered at her caress, her words skittering down his neck. Almost without warning he pulled the trigger and he jumped in shock at the retort. Madison's big eyes widened and her mouth sagged open as the bullet furrowed its way into her heart. Red mist exploded from her chest in a blossom of color, spraying over everything. Sam felt droplets of blood splatter across his face and hand, warm and wet, just like tears.

Madison fell backwards, but Sam sprang after her, catching her before she could hit the ground. He knelt on the hardwood floor, cradling her in his arms. Her death was instantaneous, her eyes dimming before she even collapsed.

Sam buried his face in her neck, his sobs echoing in the silent apartment. He could feel the silken slide of her hair against his cheek, and smell her scent of melon, salt and blood. He held her tight, trying to keep her warm even as her body grew cool. He sat with her for hours, rocking her back and forth. She stared sightlessly up at the ceiling and when her eyes turned milky Sam shut them for her. Her body stiffened in his lap, and the blood began to congeal into thick pools of blackish sludge on the floor, but he still couldn't pry himself away.

He dug out his phone, staring at Dean's name for hours on the display. He wondered if he called Dean, if his big brother would come and help him clean up out of family obligation or if he would ignore Sam completely. Sam sobbed some more, rocking himself more than Madison.

He wished he could hear his brother call him Sammy just one more time. Just once more before he died.

The shadows in the apartment deepened, and Sam glanced out the window banked by white lace curtains. The night sky was dark, and Sam's skin crawled. The week of the full moon had waned, and a new month had begun. Madison could have lived another three weeks before her next cycle, but instead Sam had shot her through the heart like a cold-blooded murderer.

Stiffly, Sam wedged himself off the floor, fumbling with Madison's body. Riga mortis had set in, making carrying her corpse awkward and clumsy, but he managed to shuffle her into the bathroom and into the tub. Methodically, _robotically_, he cleaned the blood off the floor with some towels, and wiped his prints from every conceivable surface. Lastly, he stripped the sheets from the bed he and Madison had shared, tossing everything into the tub over her body.

He found some salt in the kitchen, and he poured the whole container into the tub. Sam figured that if anyone was going to haunt him it would be her. She wouldn't mean to of course, but it would never be more deserved.

He found some colored oil in a decorative wick lamp on the mantel, and he poured it over her body. With his knife he disabled all the smoke detectors, and gathered all of his belongings by the door for a quick getaway. Silently, he lit a match, flicking it into the tub. He stood back as the fire flamed to the ceiling. The smell of burning silk sheets and human flesh rolled over him and his stomach rebelled violently. He fell over the toilet, retching loudly over the burning blaze.

He puked for nearly as long as it took for the fire to burn. When it was over he sat back on his heels, and stared at the unrecognizable black mass that used to be Madison with watery, bloodshot eyes.

Sam was cracked wide open to the world. He was broken on the inside, and even if he managed to put himself together again, he would never be the same. His despair opened the door and it was easy for something black and twisted to slip inside. It swallowed him whole, and he allowed himself slide down an oil-slick tunnel of misery.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural. Thanks again to Starliteyes for reading this over for me. Any mistakes are mine, since I did fiddle with it a bit after getting it back.

Warnings: Vague spoilers for Hunted and BUABS. Also there is some gore in the chapter.

**Broken**

Chapter Six

Dean had criss-crossed the U.S. three times, dealt with a death omen, another freaking shape-shifter, and a bitch of a crossroads demon that almost, _almost_ convinced him to make a deal. It was only the thought that having Dad back would mean pulling Sam back into this life that stopped him.

One rainy night, six months to the day since Dean saw his brother's back as he walked out Bobby's door, Dean was holed up in a crappy hotel in west Texas. It was a small room, with only a doublewide bed, an empty nightstand that was missing its prerequisite Bible and a tiny black and white TV. It had taken Dean months to adjust to the fact that Sam wasn't there beside him, and that he didn't need to fight with the desk clerk over getting two queens instead of one king. He was truly alone, with only the rattle of rain on the window to keep him company.

He was perched on the end of the bed, facing the TV he didn't bother to switch on. In one hand he gripped a bottle of Jose, letting it dangle between his knees, while the other lay on his thigh, his fingers twitching sporadically. He took another belt of tequila, his bloodshot eyes were drawn away from some truly hideous hotel art on the wall above the TV to the silver glint of his .45 sitting conspicuously on the stand in front of him.

There was a chirp from his pocket, and he dug into his jeans without bothering to drag his eyes away from his gun. It was Bobby on the other line, calling to tell him that something was going after hunters. Dean's shrug of nonchalance was loud enough to be heard over the phone. From where he was sitting at the end of a single bed shrouded in pink and burgundy paisley, while staring at his pistol, being dead was looking pretty damn good.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood on end.

"_There was video of the last killing."_

Dean didn't reply, but he could feel a chill slide down his spine.

"_It was Sam."_

Dean shot up off the bed like had been struck by lightning. His fingers clenched so tightly around his phone that his knuckles cramped. Distantly, Dean heard the thud of a bottle hitting the floor, but he barely comprehended that he had dropped the tequila.

"Sam's dead?" The words fell out of his mouth in a panicked rush, and for the first time in months Dean's dead heart began to thud with splinters of agony in his hollow chest.

"_No!"_ Bobby's reply was sharp, but the pause behind it wasn't reassuring.

"What the fuck, Bobby?" Dean felt like throwing the phone against the wall, right through the awful painting that was level now with his sightless eyes.

"_Dean. Sam's the one who did the killing."_

Dean felt all the blood course down his body. He was sure that if he looked at his feet he would see a crimson pool of it spreading on the green shag carpet.

"What?" The word was whispered and dry. Dean couldn't believe it, but at the same time he knew that Bobby wouldn't lie.

"_I saw it myself, Dean. It's true."_

"I want to see the tape. I'll be there in a day."

Dean closed the phone with a snap, grabbed up his duffel, and walked out of the room without checking out.

It took him a day to reach the junk yard. He pulled up to the front porch with a skid, jumped out of the Impala and marched straight into the house without bothering to knock. Bobby was ready for him, his PC booted up and the video paused.

Dean watched in stunned disbelief as his brother stalked an older, grisly hunter. The man looked like a cowboy with his buckskin fringe jacket and the huge Bowie he was waving in Sam's direction. He was brawny, and had at least fifty pounds of pure muscle over Sam, but his little brother was faster. The fight was amazingly quick, and it ended with Sam drawing the knife across the man's throat, before casually cleaning the blade on his shirt.

Dean rewound the footage and watched it again, but there was no mistake. It definitely was Sam.

"Something's wrong. He's possessed or something."

Bobby was watching Dean with watery blue eyes, his lips drawn tight. His hands were wrapped around the back of a wooden chair and at Dean's words his knuckles bleached white with strain.

"That may be so, but that's not our worst problem."

Dean looked up from the captured image of his little brother slicing the man's neck.

"What do you mean?"

"That video was emailed to me and at least a dozen other hunters. It doesn't matter if Sam isn't himself. He's public enemy number one now."

Dean sucked in his hollow cheeks and his usually full lips thinned. Something shattered inside his green eyes, and Bobby watched in trepidation as a dark shadow shuttered over them. Over the months he had watched Dean transform from a happy scamp of a boy to a dull, lifeless man. Now before his very eyes he watched that man turn into a predator, his eyes darkening with hate, bitterness, and resolute determination.

"Is that what you think? That Sam's an enemy?"

Bobby felt icy fingertips slide down his spine and nestle in the deepest pit of his stomach. A cold sweat broke out under his arms and at the vee of his thighs. He relaxed his grip on the chair he was standing behind, taking a step back to ready himself for an attack. He locked onto Dean's eyes and held them tight with his own, knowing instinctively that this moment could potentially be his last.

"Don't be stupid, son. I want to help Sam as much as you do."

The atmosphere remained electric with primal awareness, but it didn't snap with the same ferocity that it had only moments before. Some of the tension relaxed in Dean's shoulders, and Bobby followed suit.

"I have to get to Sam, before anyone else does."

Dean looked away, his broken gaze caught helplessly on the screen where his brother was frozen in the callous act of murder. Bobby nodded in agreement, but his eyes were only for Dean, and the sorrow that he radiated.

8888

Three months of hardcore tracking turned up nothing but a trail of corpses. Dean continually called his brother's cell, but he was only greeted by voice mail. There were no taunting calls in the night, no ominous shadows lurking outside his hotel room---just total, deafening silence. If it wasn't for the bloody video emails being sent out anonymously to various hunters, Dean would have never known that his brother was still walking around. The task of finding his brother was made that much harder, when it became clear that most of the other hunters thought that Dean was in on Sam's little killing spree.

They hunted him with the same ferocity that they hunted Sam. They thought they could use him to get to his brother. They were wrong. Dead wrong.

The first couple he let off with severe beatings, and a few guttural words of warning. One ambushed Dean at Sam's latest victim's cabin in northern Michigan. Dean was the first one to arrive on the scene, having received an email of the killing before any of the other hunters. It hadn't taken long for he and Bobby to figure out that it was Sam who was sending the emails. He was leading the hunt, and he was making sure that his big brother was in the lead.

Dean was crouched over the freshly sliced corpse, looking for any clues as to which demon was inhabiting his brother. He was concentrating so intensely that he didn't hear the soft footsteps behind him. When something hard and heavy crashed down on the back of his skull, he didn't even have time to form a nasty expletive before he collapsed into darkness.

When he came to he was hogtied to a chair, his wrists firmly lashed to the straight arms and his feet tied to the legs. Blood was caked over his left eye, gluing his lashes to his cheek. He jerked his head down, briskly rubbing his bruised face against his shoulder until he could pry his eye open. He was still in the cabin, the smell of death rank in his clothes and hair.

He glanced to the side, finally catching sight of a large black man, who sat silently watching him. Dean's smile was cold and tight and did nothing to light up his dead eyes.

"Hey, Gordie. Didja miss me?"

Gordon's thick lips peeled back from his blindingly white teeth, his brown eyes dancing with merriment. Dean could practically smell the sick anticipation wafting off of him in waves.

"Your brother's making quite the mess. Course, you'd be picking up after him. Big brother, always watching out for the baby. Leastways, that's what they say."

Dean lolled his head back on his neck, working out his stiff muscles. By the tackiness of his drying blood and the smell of rot in the air, he figured that he had been out for some hours. Bobby would be getting fidgety soon and calling for an update.

"Oh, yeah. Whose they?"

"Everyone. Sam's whipped the whole damn lot of them into a frenzy. They all want a piece of him."

Dean rolled his head towards Gordon and locked his jaded eyes on him. Gordon hadn't moved from his spot near the window. His booted foot was planted on the window sill, absently flipping his hunting knife in one hand. His casual stance was enough to make the hackles on the back of Dean's neck stand on end.

Even after their last encounter, Gordon was stupid enough to think he had the upper hand---that he had Dean cornered, and was that much closer to capturing Sam. Dean wanted to snarl, but instead he curled his upper lip into a predatory smile. Methodically, he searched for his weapons, feeling for the weight of them against skin. They were all missing except for the tiny knife sheathed at his wrist. It was a rookie mistake that Dean wasn't above capitalizing on.

"That thing isn't Sam. He's possessed."

Gordon unbent himself from his seat at the window. The thick sole of his boot scraped loudly along the sill before he dropped it to the floor with a thud. He stood up, still flipping his knife as he circled behind Dean.

The muscles in Dean's back went rigid and the tiny spot between his shoulder blades tingled with awareness. Dean never liked it when people were behind him; he liked it even less when they were bastards with big ass knives.

"That's what you want everyone to believe. But I know the truth."

Dean made a show of struggling against his bonds, smiling inwardly when he heard Gordon chuckle. He used the movement to cover the fact that he was curling his fingers beneath the palm of his hand to wiggle his small knife out of its sheath.

"The truth? You mean, besides the fact that your mama was your daddy's sister?"

The blow came out of nowhere, but Dean was expecting it. It rocked his head forward, and it was the last bit of momentum that he needed to free his knife.

"Now, Dean. There's no reason to be nasty. I'm talking about your baby brother being evil. The real, down in the fiery pits of Hell, my master is the devil, kind of evil. He's the Antichrist."

That caught Dean off guard, and he genuinely had to pause what he was doing to get a handle on the conversation.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Gordon chuckled again and circled around to Dean's front. Dean instantly pressed his hand flat against the chair rail, cupping his knife in his palm. Gordon was grinning down at him with a wide benevolent smile that made Dean want to kick his teeth in.

"Didn't you daddy ever tell you? Sam's been marked. He's not even human. He's something filthy and vile. He needs to destroyed---for the good of mankind. For his own good."

Dean saw red at the fringes of his vision. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a loud snarl that echoed through the lower floors of the cabin. He fought against his bonds, forgetting momentarily about his knife. It was only when it nicked his palm did he remember. He inhaled deeply through his nose, calming himself, biding his time.

"You don't know shit, so why don't you shut the fuck up?"

Gordon crossed his arms across his chest, his long-bladed knife flashing before his face in a vague threat.

"I guess Johnny never did tell you. Maybe that's why little Sammy shot him. To keep him quiet."

"You're just talking out your ass now, Gordie. You have no idea what you're saying. My dad was possessed and shooting him was the only way to kill the demon that had been hunting our family for twenty years. Sam did the only thing that he could to end that freaking nightmare. Now my little brother is possessed by some shitfuck of a demon and I'm not going to let some backwoods, chicken-livered hunter plant a half a dozen bullets in his chest for that."

"You don't have any choice in the matter, do you Dean? Looks like you're all tied up with nowhere to go. I'm going find Sam, and when I do, I'm going to slice him up and feed him to the coyotes."

Gordon turned his back on Dean and crossed over to a rickety wooden table that held a bottle of Wild Turkey, a couple of knives and some rope. He poured himself a drink, never hearing the soft hiss of Dean's ropes being cut.

Dean was out of his seat, before Gordon finished his drink. His glass slid from his fingers as he was rammed from behind, and it shattered on the floor with a loud, silvery crash. Dean wrapped his foot around Gordon's ankle, taking him down to the floor hard, rubbing his face into the sharp slivers.

The man screamed and Dean saw smears of blood on the floorboards beneath them.

"Christ! My eye!"

Gordon struggled, trying to use his weight against Dean. He was heavier, but his muscles weren't nearly as honed nor did he have the advantage of weeks of adrenaline pumping through his veins that Dean had. Dean had been hunting Sam for months, living off desperation and hate for all those who tried to murder his brother when he needed help. He was angry and bitter. He wasn't going to let his brother die, and he surely wasn't going to let some sick fuck like Gordon take him out either.

Dean planted his knee in the small of Gordon's back, pressing down hard on his spine and clutched a firm hand around the back of the man's neck. He reached up blindly with his other hand, searching for the coil of rope he had seen on the table. His hand settled on the coarse hemp and he wrapped his fingers around it, dragging it off the table until it fell heavily on the floor next to them.

Dean leaned in low over Gordon, breathing heavily in his ear.

"You think I would let you do that to my brother?"

Quickly and efficiently he twined the thick rope around Gordon's neck, crossing the ends and pulling back hard. Gordon choked on his own spit, and renewed his efforts to kick himself free. Dean shifted his weight, moving his knee upwards until it was between Gordon's shoulder blades.

He yanked back hard, and from the side he could see Gordon's thick tongue protrude grotesquely from his mouth. The large man shuddered beneath him, the last of his oxygen rattling around in his lung. The pathetic gurgling faded away, and gradually Gordon stilled beneath him. Undeterred, Dean kept up the pressure until he was satisfied that Gordon was well and truly dead.

He tied the rope around Gordon's neck and picked up the slack. Dean slung the end up over the bare rafter, grunting as he hauled dead weight into the air. He hung Gordon by the neck a full foot off the floor. He tied off the rope on the nearby banister, and staggered back to the table. He swept up the warm bottle of whiskey by the neck and chugged most of it, knowing that even cheap rotgut wouldn't burn away the taste of ashes in his mouth.

He kicked Gordon's legs, spinning his corpse around so he could see his face. His tongue was a thick blob of purple flesh between his lips and his eyes bulged like white marbles from their sockets. One orb had a sliver of glass imbedded deep in the pupil.

Dean tried to care that he murdered someone, but he couldn't. Sam's reputation was already destroyed, possessed or not. There was no way that Sam would ever be able to walk among society again. In the daylight the FBI hunted him for his part in a series of gruesome murders, and in the shadows the hunters waited for him to slip up. Even if Dean would be able to save him, he would never be free.

It seemed only fitting that Dean stood by his brother. Dean was the reason that Sam had been reduced to this. If he had just stayed with his brother, protected him like he was supposed to, then he could have prevented this. Instead he had sent Sam away to live his happy, apple pie life. At the time he thought it was best, but now regret took its place beside the bitterness that roosted inside him.

He rooted around in Gordon's bag, finding a pad of legal paper and a black felt pen. He wrote a sloppy message across the page and used one on Gordon's knives to pin the note to his corpse. Dean stepped back and read the message to himself as Gordon's body swayed back and forth.

"If anyone touches my brother, I'll kill them."

Dean was a murderer now, just like his brother. The hunters would come for him, and he would greet them with a shotgun and a grin. Besides, every day that passed meant a day that Sam needed him. He didn't have time to waste over the sentimentality of human life. Sam didn't have the time.

His phone chirped and he answered the call without looking at the ID.

"Sam."

"Welcome to the family, Dean."

Dean took another swig of whiskey and walked out the front door.


	7. Chapter 7

As always, many thanks to Starliteyes for looking this over for me.

**Broken**

Chapter Seven

It turned out it was that bitch Meg, back from the dead. Looked like it really was possible to claw your way out of Hell. She was pretty pissed about it too. All Dean could think was if she had chipped a nail while she was crawling her way to the surface. She always struck him as a vain little bitch.

As soon as he offed Gordon, she was on the phone, cooing at him in Sam's voice. It was enough to make him vomit all the liquor and bile in his stomach onto the hard-packed dirt. She told him what a good little hunter he was, how proud Sammy was of him, how he was going to be the shiniest trophy on her wall.

She loved to talk. Sometimes she called him ten times a day, just to hear him breathing on the other end of the line. She threatened and cajoled, but mostly she just gloated in Dean's ear, right up until she walked into his trap.

Catching her wasn't all that hard. It seemed a demon making collect calls with a silver blood-filled chalice wasn't all that technologically savvy. She had no idea once she switched on Sam's phone, Dean could use the GPS chip inside to track him.

Dean eventually found her holed up in an abandoned motel, nothing more than just a strip of dilapidated rooms, just outside Waco. The roof was falling in and most of the sideboards were stripped, but it offered just enough shelter from the torrential downpour that was drowning the Texas desert in flashfloods.

Dean sauntered into the room, pushing aside a rotting door hanging by one hinge, and completely caught her off guard. She was in the center of the room, a few candles lit, while reading a tarot spread. For a second, Dean's mind blanked out. He wanted to laugh out loud at the vision of his brother, crouched on his knees studying a couple of cardboard cards like they were the map to his destiny. But then he remembered it wasn't Sam he was looking at. It was Meg, with her ice-black eyes, and her yawning grin of pleasure at seeing him.

"Wow, Winchester. You are a half decent hunter," she purred, and Dean felt the bile in his stomach stir.

"You don't know the half of it, bitch."

Dean had a shotgun leveled at Sam's chest, but Meg didn't seem to mind.

With her attention on Dean it gave Bobby the opportunity to sneak in behind her. Half the wall was missing in the bathroom and it was as easy as skinning a possum for him to walk right in. He planted a round of rock salt between Sam's shoulder blades, knowing the blast wouldn't permanently damage the boy, but it completely incapacitated Meg for a time. It gave them a chance to sketch out a Devil's Trap on the bare floor which had long since been stripped of carpeting.

Tied to a chair and looking helpless, Dean could almost believe he was looking at his baby brother. That somewhere along the line a horrible mistake had been made, but then she began to speak and shivers ran down his spine.

"Secretly he always liked it when you called him Sammy. He knew it was your way of telling him you loved him. But after he shot daddy you never called him Sammy again. Ergo, big brother must not love him. Oh, the misery of it all."

She laughed, and Dean backhanded her so hard that he split Sam's lip. He wanted to feel bad about it, but mostly he wanted to get out his knife and see if he could dig right through his brother's sternum and oust the bitch whom was bunkered down in Sam's soul.

"You know, he hunted a bit, all by himself. Found a werewolf in San Francisco. He tried to save her. Tried to prove to himself he wasn't completely useless. Of course he failed. Sammy always was a loser when it came to hunting. He had to shoot her through the heart like dear old dad."

"Shut up."

Dean couldn't stand the look of malicious pleasure etched over Sam's face. It made him sick to his stomach to see it. He hated that she knew Sam had been alone. Dean hadn't been there to protect his little brother like he should have.

"He sat for days in her tiny apartment, that girl rotting on the floor while he stared at your name on his phone. He wanted so badly to call you, to beg you for help, but he couldn't because he was Sam now, not Sammy. Sam didn't have a big brother who loved him. Sam was all on his lonesome."

"I said shut the fuck up, you bitch."

He knew that she was lying. She had to be. If Sam really needed him—_really needed_ him, he would have called and Dean would have been there in an instant. Surely Sam had known that. There was no way his brother believed he hated him that much. It just wasn't possible.

Was it?

Dean threw some holy water on her and she screamed, but it ended with Sam laughing. For a minute, Dean thought he was in a diner in Texas and he fought the urge to check to make sure his hand wasn't glued to the flask he was holding. He clenched his empty fist and sneered at the demon before glancing over at Bobby.

Bobby was staring at Sam with horrified blue eyes, his lips barely moving over the exorcism. Maybe Dean should have known then that something was wrong, but all he wanted was for his Sammy to be back.

"Eventually he scrapped her cold, stiff corpse off the floor and threw her into the tub, along with the sheets he had fucked her on. Burned her to a crisp while he barfed in the toilet." Meg laughed again, but all Dean could see was his baby brother.

"It was so easy to slip inside after that. All that misery and heartache. His despair all but opened the door for me."

Dean flung more water at her, but she just laughed and began her own Latin incantation. The room rumbled and a crack raced along the aged plaster. The floor buckled, boards splintering and cracking until the Devil's Trap collapsed. She flung herself from the chair, fraying the ropes like they were straw. She landed on Dean, using all the strength of Sam's arm and just a little more from the depths of Hell to pound Dean's face in. He was pinned beneath her, staring up at his baby brother's face twisted into a snarl of hate, and for just a moment he thought he saw Sam peering out from behind oil-slick eyes.

All that hate. All that bitterness and sorrow. It wasn't all Meg's. Some of it was Sam's too. Dean had done that to his little brother. He had pushed Sam away so forcefully he had fallen back on the only things he knew. Anger. Hurt. Regret.

She almost brought the whole place down before Bobby figured out she had bound herself into Sam's body. One minute she was pulling back Sam's fist and the next moment she was flat on her back writhing in pain. Once the binding link was broken she turned tail and ran faster than a cottontail being chased by a tundra wolf. Dean didn't care, because she was gone, and he had Sam.

The second she expelled herself, bright rivers of blood began to gush from Sam's mouth and his white shirt blossomed crimson flowers. Sam had been hunting Hunters for three months, and they weren't the kind of men who missed when they pointed a gun.

Dean gathered up Sam, rocking him gently in his arms. Tears ran down his face, and for once he didn't try to hide them away. He looked down at his brother's upturned face, and Sam's cloudy, hazel eyes watched Dean's tears slide down his cheeks.

"Dean." His name was soft and wet, and it was carried on another wave of blood.

"Shush, little brother. Don't speak. It's going to be okay."

Bobby was off calling an ambulance, but Dean knew that his words were a lie even as he spoke them.

"Thanks for getting me. I was so afraid that I would never be free. The things she made me do," Sam whispered distantly.

Dean dropped his head until their brows met. He didn't have the fortitude to tell his little brother that if he had known he would have never expelled Meg. He would rather his brother be possessed and still have hope than dead and cold in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry about Dad. I wish I had never done it."

Dean's arms tightened around Sam, and he clenched his eyes closed.

"No, Sammy. You were right. The yellow-eyed bastard needed killing and you were strong enough to do it. I need you to know, Sam. I never blamed you for that. _Ever_." Dean opened his eyes as he spoke, making sure he punctuated every word with a direct stare into his brother's eyes.

Sam's eyes darkened, reflecting such a mountain of pain and despair that Dean's long dead heart gave a wail of remorse at the sight.

"Then why did you send me away, Dean? Why?"

"Because it was the only thing that I could give you. It was what you needed."

"No, Dean. I needed you. You could have come with me. We could have stayed together."

Sam shuddered and when he coughed droplets of his blood splattered Dean's cheeks. Dean felt the warm spray and wondered if his tears would wash it away. Sam reached up a big hand, curling his fist into the label of Dean's leather jacket. He held onto him, as if by grounding himself he could stay in the mortal plane just a little while longer.

"You're right, Sammy. I should have come with you." Dean could barely speak, his throat was so tight.

The pain in Sam's eyes receded and his fingers uncurled themselves from Dean's jacket. Sam pressed his hand flush to Dean's chest against his pounding heart.

"You would have loved it. College chicks for days," Sam gasped, the air rattling from his lungs. His hand flopped into his lap, his eyes dulling a bit before extinguishing completely.

"Yeah, Sammy. I would have loved it."

When Bobby walked into the room to announce that the ambulance was two minutes out, he found Dean wrapped around Sam, his face buried in his brother's chest, his rounded shoulders quaking with his sobs.


	8. Chapter 8

Many, many wonderful thanks to Starliteyes for looking this over for me. I just want to wish everyone reading, Happy Holidays!! 'Cause nothing says Christmas, like this story---rolls eyes at self

WARNING: Some sexual innuendo.

**Broken**

Chapter Eight

Dean stood in the deepest shadows of the garbage-strewn alleyway. Stagnant heat pressed down on him from all sides, the tropical southern humidity flooding his lungs with water. The smell of rot and decay filled his nostrils, pouring down his throat until he could taste the stink of it on his tongue.

Across the way a battered red door opened, spilling a girl out into the street. She was young, no more than sixteen, with long raven hair and copper skin. She righted herself on wobbly feet, pulling her short skirt down over bruised thighs.

Dean's green eyes flashed in the neon light of a nearby building before darkening with the shadows around him. Silently he slipped from the mouth of the alley, following far behind the intoxicated girl. High in the midnight sky a broken moon gleamed hazily, but the stars were hidden away by Tijuana's bright party lights.

Distantly, Dean could hear a mob carousing through the streets, singing in fractured Spanish. Americans looking for a good time across the border.

The girl tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, nearly stumbling to her knees. She caught herself on a streetlamp, hugging the steel pole like a lost lover. She bent at the waist, bracing herself with one arm until the sounds of retching mixed with the desperate barking of a street-lost mutt.

Dean stayed deep in the shadows, waiting patiently for her to stumble onward again. He trailed behind, watching as she solicited an equally drunken man. They fumbled their way into a recessed doorway, their panting and moans nearly as loud as the revelers to Dean's sensitive ears. They fell to a heap in the shadows, and a few minutes later the girl crawled her way out, a thick wallet clutched in her hand. She staggered upright, continuing on her way, never looking back at the fallen man.

The girl led him to a rundown apartment building with brightly colored clothing strung from the windows and dead flowers hanging in pots. She leaned against the door of her first floor apartment, blinking blurrily at a ball of keys in her hand. Very carefully she sorted them, delicately plucking out her house key.

As soon as Dean heard the lock click, he rapidly closed the gap between them. He rammed her from behind, body checking her headfirst into the apartment and slamming the door behind him. She hit the far wall that once had been a cheery orange, but now was moldy with filth. She spun around, wobbling on stiletto heels, and flung out her fist, aiming for his jaw. Her dark eyes widened when her flailing blow bounced off his shoulder, splitting her knuckles on rounded bone.

Dean tackled her to the ground, his strong hands finding purchase on her thin rayon blouse. He yanked hard and the rending of fabric echoed in the tiny room. Their panting was loud and rough as they struggled against each other. She inhaled deeply to scream, but Dean wrapped his hand around her throat, nearly crushing her windpipe.

She choked for air while Dean stripped her naked, his free hand sliding along smooth skin and long limbs, looking for some patch of raised flesh or an obscene mark. Finding nothing he reared away, backhanding her hard across the face. She recoiled, rolling on the ground as he moved away. She curled up on the floor, her pink tongue darting out to lick blood from her cut lip.

"It's nice to see you too, Dean. What's it been? Six months?" she hissed scathingly in a lilting Spanish accent.

Dean ignored her, hauling himself up off the floor to walk away. He plucked his duffel from its hiding place behind a single chair, where he had stashed it earlier. The girl's glittering black eyes trailed up to the ceiling, examining an intricate Devil's Trap etched there she had never seen before. Conspicuously, she tested her power against it, her eyes widening when she realized she was helpless.

To hide her concern she sat up languidly, tucking her long, coltish legs beneath her. She leaned back on one hand, unconcerned at her blatant nakedness. She watched as Dean pulled a leather bound volume from his bag. At the sight of it she furled her brow, sniffing the air delicately. She grinned like a well-fed cat when she caught its scent of corruption in the air.

"Whatcha got there, Dino? A grimoire bound in human flesh? That's so _naughty_ of you," she purred, thrusting her perky young breasts towards him. "Gonna start playing for our team now? After all, we know how to have _all _the fun."

Dean flipped open the book, his place marked with a leather thong. The room was dark except for a distant street lamp that accentuated the girl's lithe form. He switched on a penlight to read the text, the pale light casting his features in sharp relief. His face bones were angular in the shadows, deepening the hollows beneath his cheeks. Dark stubble covered his jaw, salted with gray that hadn't been there before. His eyes were sunken and dark, no longer a beautiful shade of green. Instead, they were the color of muddy, algae-ridden swamp water.

The girl was seemingly unaffected by his raw appearance except for a slight quivering of her full, bottom lip. She straightened her spine, spreading her thighs in a grotesque temptation of sex. She cupped a small breast, toying with it before sliding her hand down her flat stomach and in between her thighs.

"You like this meat puppet, Dean? So much tastier than the last one. Found her right after her Quinceañera, still gowned in her fluffy white dress. She tasted like birthday cake when I took her." She threw back her head, moaning at the ceiling. "Oh, we have done such wonderfully, dirty things together," she gasped breathlessly.

From his coat pocket, Dean withdrew a silver flask, uncapping it to fling holy water on her. She sizzled, screeching and cursing in three different languages. She flipped her long black hair out of her face and hissed up at him, her eyes burning oil lamps in the meager light.

Dean ignored it all and calmly read a passage from the text. The words were heavy and they twisted up his tongue, but he had practiced everyday for three months since Bobby handed the grimoire to him. With no bullets for the Colt, they no longer had the ability to kill demons, but the dark exorcism he read was supposed to send them screaming into the darkest pits of Hell.

"Tell me, Winchester, after I left, did you kiss your brother on the lips and tell him how much you loved him?

Dean's hard eyes flickered down at her, filled with disgust at her scathing innuendo. Demons lied as often as they breathed. The words continued to flow from his mouth, but she smiled victoriously at gaining even a fraction of his attention.

"I bet he looked so pretty covered in all that blood. Red was always Sammy's color."

"Don't call him that."

Dean's voice was low and guttural, but it didn't carry any of the fury she expected. This coldly removed side of Dean frightened her more than his rage. This Dean had already given up on living. For all intents and purposes he was dead. He just had one last mission before his ticket got punched, and nothing was going to stop him from completing it.

"What's the matter? Do you miss your baby brother? Tell me, did you salt and burn his bones like a good little hunter or did you bury him with the hope that he might come and haunt you someday? After all, you are the one who failed him. Betrayed him. If he was going to haunt anyone's ass it would be yours, wouldn't it?"

The girl's bronze skin shone with sweat, and her dark hair plastered itself to her damp back. Her muscles periodically rippled beneath her skin, a living thing that was screaming to be let out. Her voice rose a notch with panic as she spat out as many accusations as she could.

"Think about it. It really wasn't my fault. You caused him all that misery and despair, opening the door for me. If you hadn't pushed him away the way you had, then I wouldn't have been able to touch him. The only person you have to blame is yourself, Dean."

She gasped the last part, her body falling prone onto the floor, her back arching with agony. Dean stuttered to a halt, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye as he hunched his shoulders. Guilt roiled in his stomach, threatening to crawl up his throat. Demons lied, but when it would hurt the most, they told the truth.

"You're right. It's my fault. It's all my fault. My little brother is dead because of me. My entire family gone. Everything. All that is left is the blood on my hands."

Without the evil sorcery pulling the flesh from her bones, the young girl was able to pull herself up off the floor to kneel at Dean's feet. Her sweat-damp hair swept forward over her shoulders, modestly covering her breasts. Her eyes gleamed chocolate instead of oil-slick black when they looked up at him.

"That's a necromancy spell you're using. Sure it's going to cast me so far down into Hell that I'll never crawl my way out; but at the same time, it's going to rend this little girl apart. I swear to you, Dean, she's alive. Allow me to leave and you can save her."

Dean's legs buckled, and he fell to his knees before her. He could smell rancid cigarette smoke and day old sex on her bare skin. It mingled well with the sweaty grime and bad tequila on him. He leaned forward, close enough to feel her unnatural heat, but still protected by the unseen barrier of power.

"Did you really think I would let you get away with it, Meg? I may have loaded the gun that killed Sammy, but you are the one who pulled the trigger. I'm going to send you screaming into The Pit, and I'm going to laugh while doing it."

Meg's eyes widened, clouding over with evilness. Dean opened his mouth, his perfect lips forming words that bombarded the small room. Meg's stolen body began to quake and writhe with agony. She threw back her head, her screams ripping through the walls and spilling out into the darkened street. Dean's voice rose to be heard over her pathetic begging, refusing to tear his eyes away when her flesh began to split across her face and chest.

He flung out the last word unflinchingly, not even cringing when it was punctuated with a loud boom that shook the entire building. Hot sheets of blood exploded everywhere, drenching him in its crimson heat. It coated his face, leaving only the whites of his eyes visible in the dark. It dripped down the drab walls and obscured the intricate drawing on the ceiling. All that was left was a beautiful skeleton, draped in shreds of red satin flesh in the center of the room.

In the wake of so much calamity the silence was deafening. Only the steady drip of blood from the ceiling and Dean's rough breathing could be heard.

Dean remained on his knees, the scent of death and blood heavy in his nostrils. He could taste the metallic taint of it on his tongue. He stared at the meatless heap of bones on the floor and a maniacal smile broke out across his face. He threw back his head, laughing belly-deep towards the heavens. The sound was so wicked that the nearby hounds began to howl.


	9. Chapter 9

**Broken**

Chapter Nine

The sun was riding low in the sky when Bobby heard the throaty growl of the Impala coming up the driveway. He stepped out onto the front porch, the screen door slamming gunshot loud behind him. It was late summer, and thick clouds of dust kicked up behind the car as it prowled its way up the dirt road. The dust settled thickly on twisted heaps of metal, coating the inside of Bobby's nose and mouth. Sun burnt trees reached skeletal fingers towards the brown sky as the sun sank even farther towards the horizon.

Wordlessly, Dean stepped out of the car, handing Bobby the grimoire as soon as he reached the porch. Bobby took it from him, suppressing the shudder that ran through his body at the wickedness he could feel pulsing at his fingertips. Bobby had dug the book up for Dean because it was the only thing he could do for the boy he had known darn near his entire life. It was the only way Bobby could contribute to the last hunt Dean would ever have.

When Bobby looked at Dean, standing silent and forlorn on the front porch, he remembered when he first met him. The boy hadn't been more than six, all scrapped knees, freckles and big green eyes. He didn't speak much, only responding when you asked him a direct question. Mostly he just watched with those green eyes. Watched, and waited. Looking for a mother who would never come home.

He had wandered around the junk yard with a little boy's interest, walking slow so his baby brother could toddle around behind him. It had been summer the first time they met, and Sam was wearing nothing more than a sagging diaper. The kid would fall on his rear in the dirt, and Dean was there to patiently help him back up. It would have been easier separating the sun from the sky, than to pull apart those two.

It wasn't until later, after the misunderstandings between family began to creep up, did those two stand on opposite lines drawn in the dusty, summer dirt.

"Beer?" Bobby asked out of habit, already knowing Dean's response.

Dean shook his head, stepping off the creaky wooden porch, circling around to the back of the house. Bobby sighed, his heart heavy as he retreated into his home. He placed the book in a hidden catch before walking out the back door.

Dean was already at the far end of the property, kneeling beneath a huge oak that still had most of its leaves. After John and Sam's funeral pyres, Bobby had gathered up as much of their ashes as he could. He buried them beneath the oak tree, erecting a couple of nailed-together crosses as markers. He didn't bother with their names, just carved their initials in the center. No one would be coming to pay their respects to the dead hunters; everyone who had loved them were standing over them at that moment.

Bobby struck a nail in John's cross, looping his wedding ring over it. Twenty years and the man never took it off. He remained faithful to his dead wife in more than just memory. Sometimes, when Bobby allowed himself to sit down and think hard about it, he hated Mary. Her death had destroyed three lives. It wasn't her fault of course, and her sacrifice saved countless others as John traveled the countryside eradicating evil, but still her loss had changed the course of her family's lives forever.

It wasn't that John hadn't loved his boys; it was maybe that he loved them too much. In the beginning it had been all about avenging Mary, but in the end, Bobby thought it might have been more about protecting his boys. A part of John believed that if he could kill every evil son of a bitch that lived, he could prevent his sons from waking up one night and seeing their wives burning on the ceiling.

That obsession of seeing his sons safe was the very thing that tore them apart. While John was busy researching some piece of obscure lore or off hunting the nearest evil, it had been Dean and Sam who were left alone to depend on each other. It wasn't John who had steered Sam away from the sharp bits of metal and pieces of glass littering the junkyard when he had been a baby. It had been Dean. It had been Dean that grew up taking care of Sam, while his father hunted. Dean had always been in the middle, mediating their squabbles, until eventually he became nothing more than a wall between the two. It had been Dean that had been constantly looking over his shoulder for the thing in the dark, or maybe to catch a glimpse of his mother who he hoped would be right around the next corner.

John and Dean had always been a little bit broken; but it was Sam, their glue, that had kept them together. When Sam smiled it was like looking into the face of the sun. It made you feel warm inside, and the effect was a little blinding. A person could go through life waiting to see that sun. Bobby was sure the reason Dean started talking again, started interacting with the world in general, was because the sunshine smile of his little brother. The goofier Dean acted, the more Sam smiled, and the more right the world seemed.

When Sam was angry though, thunderclouds couldn't compete with the fearsomeness of his expression. Sam pulled the entire world down with his frown; and as he grew older, his frown was nearly a permanent part of his features.

Together the Winchesters were fractured, but relatively whole. There was something vital missing from them, a hole where Mary had been, but they could still function. As a united front they were strong, seemingly unbreakable; but in reality they were like a porcelain cup shattered and glued back together. It still worked, but it leaked out around the edges and chips were gone.

After John's death there was no way for the boys to pick up the pieces and try to refit everything back together. There were too many fundamental parts gone. Dean tried to do what he thought was best for his brother, but he had been wrong. Distance and separation destroyed them.

Dean knelt before the graves of his family, his head bent. Bobby stood behind him, staring sightlessly at the crosses. There was nothing he could do to repair what had been broken. There was no quick fix by cleaning out the fluids or a way to switch out the old parts with new ones. There was nothing to replace Dean's loss.

His family was dead. A mother killed by a demon's greed. A father killed by a son's fear. A boy killed by a brother's rejection.

Bobby dropped a heavy hand on Dean's shoulder. Beneath his palm he could feel fragile bones under thin skin. Dean had lost weight since the death of his father a year ago and in the last six months during his hunt for Meg he had become nothing more than a ghost of his former self.

Minutes seemed like hours, and the sun sank beneath the horizon of twisted metal cars. Bobby sighed deeply, squeezing Dean's shoulder.

He wondered about the inevitability of life. He thought hard about destiny. Was fate something that was predetermined, or had there been a chance that things could have been different? In another world, in another time, did they have a chance or was it written that they were to die broken beyond repair.

"I love you, son," Bobby whispered, and Dean's chin touched his chest.

Bobby walked away, made it all the way to his kitchen, before a single sob built up into his chest and escaped his throat. He took a beer from the fridge, barely registering the sound of the bottle cap clattering on the kitchen table as he opened it. He sat down heavily in a straight back chair, but didn't take a swig. Instead he stared blankly at the amber bottle, absently picking at the label.

A gunshot echoed through the scrap yard, and the new pup Bobby bought began to bark.

Bobby took a swig of his beer, ignoring the tears rolling down his face.

Finished


End file.
